


Alone in King's Landing

by NothingWasSimple



Series: Rise of the Bloodwolf [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blobert Baratheon, King's Landing, R Plus L Equals J, Robert adopts Jon, Robert attempts to be a good person, The Vale of Arryn, Wargs, Winterfell, but Rheagar kidnapped Lyanna
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:54:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25830886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingWasSimple/pseuds/NothingWasSimple
Summary: After growing up with him for years, Robert can tell when his brother-by-choice is lying.When Ned arrives in the throne room with a baby boy questions are asked, and Robert learns the truth. But instead of ordering the Lyanna's child slain, a grief-stricken Robert latches onto the last vestage of his "love", arranging for the boy to become his page when he is old enough.How will Rhaegar's bastard do in the snake-pit that is the capital?
Relationships: Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Robert Baratheon & Ned Stark, Robert Baratheon/Lyanna Stark (Minor)
Series: Rise of the Bloodwolf [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874251
Comments: 70
Kudos: 115





	1. Children of War

**The Gates of the Moon, 281ac**

“C’mon Ned!” He roared at the solemn lad clambering behind him. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Night had long fallen on the Giants lance, he guessed it was the hour of ghosts. The Mountains of the Moon where enveloped in a silver cloak of clouds that blocked the lunar gaze. At seven-and-ten-years old Eddard Stark was already as serious as a greybeard of seventy. Despite having no formal responsibilities, a sense of duty guarded the high walls of honour that he had erected. Walls that Robert loved nothing more than trying to break down.

“This is stupid, even for you.”

The Eyrie had been abandoned for the winter, the way-castles protecting the stronghold empty while the steep slopes of the Vale wore their coat of white. But now, as spring crept up on them, the path to Stone was beginning to clear, the passage to the lowest guard tower finally passable to the two young men. The lower reaches of Alyssa’s Tears had already melted, though higher up the streaks of ice still proudly reflected what little light found it, two stripes of glistening icy blue in the endless rolling fields of white.

Normally this trip would be done on mules. Even in the hight of summer the route could be deadly, with the carved steps covered in ice it was like scaling the Wall itself, but Robert wanted this night-time excursion to remain secret; Lord Jon would beat them bloody if he ever knew what they were up to.

“Aye, that might be so, but when has that ever stopped us?” He gave an earthshattering laugh that threatened to start an avalanche.

Ned sighed in resignation, as a second son he had been taught to follow rather than lead. He had been pestering Robert to stop the entire way up, but now that their destination was almost in sight there would be no turning back.

The clouds shifted as they approached Stone, the moon granting them light as they advanced the twined towers that held the trail. Great spears of ice dripped from the iron spikes, Icicles that had built up throughout the long cruel winter reflecting the pale milky light from the heavens.

The door had been locked but repeated freezing a thawing throughout the winter had buckled the metal enough that Robert could rip it open. They made their way to a small chamber on the first floor of the left tower. A square room with a hearth, a small pile of wood, and enough arrow slits to give them warning if they were followed. In it they found a barrel of ale intended for the guards. He filled a tankard for himself and Ned, japing at his companion’s reluctance to partake in the drinking.

Time passed as they japed away the night, and it was the hour of the nightingale when talk turned to girls. Robert, well in his cups, took out the locket that contained the sketching of his betrothed that Ned had gifted to him the prior year claiming it was a name-day present from Lyanna, but that was a poor lie. Ned never could tell a lie.

“She hates me” The mournful moan left his mouth, a sense of despondency settled over him. “The most beautiful girl in the world, and she hates me.” It shouldn’t have been like that, they should have got on like a house on fire, they were both free spirited and wilful, with a love of riding and, if Ned was to be believed (and he hoped he was), a natural skill at arms.

But alas, on his visit north two years prior he had bungled their introduction. What was meant to be a small drink to calm his nerves before they first met had gotten out of hand, and he had greeted her reeking of ale, with vomit on his boots. The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands greeting his betrothed whilst too inebriated to stand unsupported. Fuck.

Things had somehow managed to go downhill from there. He accidently mentioned sweet Mya Stone, left behind in the Vale. That had been the final straw. She spent the entirety of his visit to Winterfell pretending that he didn’t exist. Avoiding eye-contact, leaving the room as soon as he entered, acting deaf whenever he tried to apologise to her.

He found horse shit in his bed that night. His wine was replaced with vinegar. The servants would ‘forget’ his requests. The other visiting lords and lordlings refused to him in the training ground. And he deserved it all. Of course, none of it could be traced back to Lyanna. She was far too wise for that. Benjen did the wine and the manure while Brandon was responsible for his shunning. But Lya was the mastermind behind it all.

“She’ll grow to like you, you just got off to a rocky start.”

“Fuck off Ned, you know it couldn’t have gone worse.”

There was a moment of silence as the first light of morning began to dance around the sky. Ned gave a resigned smile. “You’re right, I suppose. But you’ve lost some of you worse habits, or at least keeping you’re whoring discrete.” He said the last part with distain.

“My bed has been empty since Winterfell!” Robert replied, honestly. “But I still drink too much.” He raised his tankard to Ned, who was still nursing his first. “What of you? have any Ladies of the Vale caught the eye of the honourable Eddard Stark?”

The pause was only for a moment. No one who did not know him would have noticed, but Ned was his brother in all but blood.

“No.”

“You’re a hopeless liar Ned. How many times need I tell you; you hesitate before a lie.” he laughed “Who is it, tell me?”

“No.” The reply was instant.

“It’s not Horton’s sister is it?”

There was a short pause before a sheepish “no” crept nervously out from Ned’s corner.

“Ooooh I’m going to have fun with this!” Laughter rattled the room as Robert spent the next ten minutes making japes at his friends’ expense.

“It’s a shame she’s not coming to Harrenhall, you’ll need to find someone else to ask a favour from.”

Ned jumped on the opportunity to change the conversation. “Who’s your coin on for the joust? It has to be one of the Kingsguard, Ser Arthur maybe?”

“Cousin Rhaegar is always in contention too.” he replied, mainly to remind Ned of his kinship with the dragons.

“Will you ever pass up an opportunity to bring up your relationship with the king?”

“You would if you could, don’t even lie”

“I hear that your _Cousin_ will be naming a new knight to the kingsguard at Harrenhall, do you know who it could be?”

“It isn’t one of my Stormlanders if that’s what you’re asking. At least none that have told their Lord Paramount.” The first rays of sunlight were shining brightly through the arrow slit, the light a pale gold hue, red dancing across the sky. “My money is on the Blackfish” Robert mused. “An unmarried man of that age with his skill and renown, he could do no better than to don the white cloak.”

“I doubt it.” Ned stared out of the arrow slit, gazing into the forever, as he always does when thinking about his family. “He’s a Tully, he’ll stay in Riverrun until Brandon’s marriage and then, well, he’s been looking for employment in Winterfell. Captain of the guards, Master of arms, something like that.”

The sun was well and truly up by now, the beams of light dancing rainbows into Alyssa’s silver tears. Drunk as he was, Robert knew better that to insist that they stay in Stone. He let Ned guide him in his inebriated state down the mountainside. It was slow going, the icy steps beginning to melt in the morning sun. His head was pounding like a thousand mountain clansmen banging on their shields, but with Ned at his side and the world spread out below them, he was fully and truly content.

At least until he saw Jon Arryn’s face as they entered the Gates of the Moon.

**The Gates of the Moon, 282ac**

He needed to swing his hammer at something. Anything. Anyone. Rhaegar.

Months had passed since Harrenhall, and the realm had once again been consumed by the grasping tendrils of winter’s wild white winds. The high road had been closed for weeks, snow piles twenty feet deep blocking the high mountain passes.

They were supposed to be going to the Riverlands for the wedding between the Wild Wolf and the Trout of Riverrun. He almost pitied Ned’s brother. He had a reputation for fucking and fighting and drinking. He was a _Real Man_ , one that Robert could imagine as a great friend and ally in the future. She was overly pious, with a far too narrow-minded view of ladyhood and a _very_ Southron view of the North. Brandon would be stifled by her, while Catelyn would grow to hate her future home.

Unfortunately, their travel plans had been ruined by the unexpected end to what had begun to be known as the false spring, and heavy snowstorms had accosted the Vale of Arryn for the better part of the last month. Even Gulltown was closed, one of the few ravens to make it through the blizzard reported sever damage to the port caused by the weather, bad enough that it prevented shipping in and out of the Vale. With the scathing cold being felt even this far south he shuddered thinking about how bad things must be in Winterfell. Not for the first time did he thank the Seven that Lya had decided to remain at Riverrun until Brandon’s marriage.

Harrenhall had given him a chance to somewhat repair his relationship with his betrothed, at least to the point where she actually responded to one of his letters. Even if it was just to mock the shit out of his gods awful attempts at poetry. Writing wasn’t his forte.

But now he was back to thinking about the tourney again. About what Rhagar did. And now he wanted to hit something again.

“Ned! Get in here with your sword!”

He was in a mostly empty storage chamber, its contents long ago consumed during the extensive winter they were hopefully, finally, leaving behind for good after the disastrous false spring. It was probably too cramped for a two-handed Warhammer, but Robert needed some outlet for his rage that was neither the bottle nor the brothel. He had promised Lya.

Ned entered reluctantly and suggested they do this outside. He considered it briefly; the storm was lifting, and the snows were being cleared by guardsmen, but the wind still had a vicious bite to it. “Nah, let’s get on with it.”

Ned started with a calm flurry of swipes at his head. They had forgone armour, trusting each other to pull their strikes, but the sight of a blunted tourney sword moving toward his unprotected head instinctively forced him backwards. By the time he had got a decent parry with his oversized hammer he had been pushed back almost to the wall. His riposte was poor, an aimless overhead swing. Being boxed into a corner prevented him from making a clean strike, but it was threatening enough for the Northman to take a step back.

“You’re too cautious their Ned. Step closer, make me pay when I lash out!”

“You think I want to be your anvil?”

Robert swung again without waiting to regain his balance, trying to take the initiative with an arcing swipe that caught Ned’s shield at an angle, the force of the impact directing the mass of metal down into the ground. His footing was still crap from his previous attack, and the surprise destabilisation caused by the unexpected rebound of his hammer pulled him over as he completely lost his balance. The room rolled over as he found himself on the floor.

“Your movement fails when your angry. Is it the prince again?” Ned helped him to his feet, and he dusted himself off.

“Of fucking course it’s that silver-headed cunt.” He bristled at the mere thought of that conceited worm, untouchable in his arrogance. “He shamed her! He shamed us all.” The image of the prince riding past his wife in the royal box and gifting the winter roses to his Lyanna burst to the front of his memory. “ _I_ should have given it to her” he muttered. He had ridden six lances against Ser Barristan the Bold in the round-of-four before being thrown from his saddle.

Ned sighed. “Nobody could have beaten him out there, you saw him ride. He was technically perfect and had a determination that I’ve never seen in any other man.”

“Come on Ned, we both know there was one who was better.”

“Really? This again. The Knight of the Laughing Tree rode three tilts against poor jousters and then disappeared. You cannot judge them on a victory ridden against a Frey!”

“Winning in one against Black Walder is no simple feat! It took me three lances at the wedding between Deana Hardyng and what’s-his-face Frey the other year. I can’t wait to see if I can best them.”

Ned rolled his eyes “It’s still not enough to go on to say that they are the greatest jouster in the realm, and besides, they disappeared afterwards.” He hesitated before adding “Nobody even knows who it is”

“She’ll ride again at Brandon’s wedding, mark my words”

His friends face fell. “You know?”

Robert laughed fully before replying “Of course I know, she is my future wife, and quite some rider too! She bullied me into letting her compete in tourneys in the Stormlands when we marry. I agreed on the condition that she must beat me first, and we both know she can!”

They both laughed now. “That _does_ sound like the Lyanna I know.”

The mood was shattered when a cold wind entered with Lord Jon Arryn, a look of solemnity masked his face. He walked like a broken man. His trembling hand held a letter marked with the three headed dragon of house Targaryen and his eyes burned with grief and fear and anger. And the words said shattered the last remnants of their childhood.

“My condolences lord Eddard, a raven from the capital, Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark are dead murdered by Aerys. The Mad King has called for your heads.”

Silence fell as they processed the news. Shock prowled the room, stalking them with disbelief. The only audible sound came from the windows rattling in the wind.

Eternity passed before Ned broke the silence.

“Why?”

As Jon told the story red covered Robert’s vision, and a black fog of rage descended on his mind.

Wild Lyanna Stark, kidnapped and raped outside the very walls of Riverrun. _Ours is the fury._

Bold Brandon Stark, suffocated to death by a modified slave collar. _Ours is the fury._

Tenacious Rickard Stark, burnt alive before the court. _Ours is the fury._

Rambunctious Jeffory Mallister, hanged like a common criminal. _Ours is the fury._

Cunning Kyle Royce, gutted and strung up as a pig. _Ours is the fury._

Sweet Elbert Arryn, rotting in a mass grave in Fleabottom. _Ours is the fury._

Young Ethan Glover, who’s body wasn’t even presented to court. _Ours is the fury._

“We Fight” a guttural roar of inhuman rage tore out of his heart. “We Fight and we Win and we Fucking Kill Them All.” At some point he had picked up his hammer. “We Kill Every Single Dragon In The Whole Fucking Continent.” He swung at the wall with an incensed, enraged, grief-filled anger, hoping that the bone shattering pain from the impact would give him some anchor to keep his emotions in check, but the hammer refused to stop, accelerating through the solid stone structure, sending shingle and mortar across the room.

His anger did not abate.

“I have called my banners. This will not stand.” Jon confirmed. “Lord Baratheon, Lord Stark, I suggest you do the same.” Snow blew through the wretched gulf in the wall. “The fight begins now.”

**The Red Keep, 283ac**

The throne was a cold, hulking mass of mottled swords and blunted blades. A statement to the realm of the power of dragons. The only seat in the whole bloody room, and if you weren’t careful it could kill you. _An apt metaphor for ruling, I suppose._

He hadn’t wanted to seat himself here when they rose up in rebellion, but as the war went on and the popularity of the dragons waned, he had been convinced that peace would only be possible if with the overthrowal of house Targaryen. The politics of the situation were lost on him, but Hoster and Jon had persuaded him that it was necessary. A new moon over the continent he called it.

So here he was, sat on the dragon’s throne, in the dragon’s keep, in the dragon’s city, being judged by the dragon skulls that lined the room. _Usurper!_ The empty eye sockets screamed at him. _Thief!_ Condemnatory glares met him from the long dead beasts as he glanced around the room. _Murderer!_ They cried. _Kinslayer!_

They spoke in Neds voice.

He had parted with Eddard with animosity after the sack of Kingslanding, their argument being heard throughout the Red Keep, at least his half of the row. The quiet wolf had lived up to his name, silent loathing laced his words.

Their quarrel had been over the murder of Prince Aegon and the Princesses Elia and Rhaenys. Lord Hoster and Lord Tywin had poisoned his mind into believing that their deaths were necessary, and Jon Arryn had counselled against taking action. He would likely still feel that way now if Ned had not reminded him what they fought against, tyranny.

Rheagar deserved to die, of course, a thousand times over. And the king too, obviously. But the children were complicated. On the one hand the represented a threat; if they gave prince Aegon the throne then when he came of age he would likely seek revenge for the death of his rapist father, while if he was confirmed as Lord of Dragonstone then he would no doubt be the used as a rallying point to stage a rebellion by the loyalists. But Ned was right, may the gods damn the man. A throne won on the murder of children was a foul prize.

But he had already condoned the act, first in a mad fit of rage, where he laughed at their mutilated corpses, and later by rewarding Lord Tywin. Lord Jon had forbidden him from recanting his decision. “ _It would make you look a weak King,_ your grace.” Robert had boycotted the small council ever since, spending his time alone, drinking to forget. But the memories never left.

It was the first time in weeks. Moons even, that he had sat the Seven blasted throne. A raven had arrived the prior day from a keep just north of the Wendwater reporting that Stark’s party would arrive the next day. Today. So here he was, on the Iron Throne, the blood red walls watching him with fiery contempt as the courtiers assembled to try to suck his cock in the hopes of royal favours.

He was alone here. Without friends, only so-called _Allies_ who would willingly sell him out for the right price. Even the man he had grown to love as a father was playing these games. Jon Arryn had been silent through the folly of the _dragonspawn_. He cringed at the mere memory of that error. Dorne would forever despise him, for that reason alone Jon Arryn should have advised him against forgiving their murders. Not to mention his house’s espousal of honour. _High as honour indeed_. At least Ned had taken those lessons to heart.

He hoped that his friend would agree to take up the position of Master of Laws but in his heart, he knew that Ned would decline. Without Stark here to ground him in the capital, the guilt and the crushing weight of failures during the rebellion would kill him. Already since the rebellion had ended, he had put on a pound of fat.

The sense of righteous wroth that had fuelled him through the war had long faltered by the time Ned entered the throne room. His clothes splattered with muck from the ride, the Direwolf emblazoned on the front of his surcote torn from some battle. He looked a wreck.

His companions where no better. He was accompanied by the Crannogman from Harrenhall, a baby not three moons old, and a cask of bones.

Lyanna’s bones.

Emptiness settled over his soul as the last drop of anger left his broken body. The pain from the campaign eclipsed by that brought on by the grief of all the losses.

Pained looks of sorrow reflected off the faces of the thousand thieving sycophants that lined the great chamber as he looked down from the tower of disjointed swords.

He knew the answer before the question passed his lips, the sorrow-stricken nod from the Northman only confirming his anguish. Simpering sorrows echoed around the throne room as the bootlicking toadies expressed their insipid sympathies. What would they know of Lyanna? Half of them thought of her as a tree worshiping savage, the Northern whore who seduced the silver prince. None of them knew her indomitable spirit or the truly awe-inspiring fire she could wield. Fuck them all. Fuck them to every dark pit and burning mound of each of the seven hells.

He ordered them gone from the chamber. Only Jon Arryn, Ned, and his companions remained as he left the Iron Throne to join them on the floor. The dragon skulls loomed large around the edges of the hall. Tears flowed freely as his reached his foster brother. He could barely hold himself upright as he collapsed into his friend. Hours and days and seconds passed as he held the other man, letting out all of the pent-up emotions he had held so tight since that fateful letter reached the Gates of the Moon.

The emotions he had masked with anger.

It was only when the bairn joined him in crying that he was able to rouse himself from his own tears, it’s long face and dark grey eyes announcing his identity clear as day.

He pulled himself together, taking a deep breath. “Wh-who is the little one?”

“He’s my…” Ned began, sending a glance to the Crannogman, “He is my natural son.”

The pause was short, barely perceptible. But it was Ned’s unmistakably tell for a lie.

Why?

Why lie?

His eyes went dark.

“You hesitated.” Fear flashed across Ned’s face “Is he Brandon’s?” He was the type, but the babe looked too young to be the wild wolf’s offspring.

Silence echoed through the chamber.

“Yes”

The realisation hit him like an armoured war horse. Lyanna. Lya’s boy. Rhagar’s son.

No.

The boy was a Stark. He was family. In a fair and just world the babe would have been his own.

But why was Ned scared?

Aegon. Rhaneys. A fresh wave of grief thundered into him, overcoming his composure.

“I’m sorry” the words where barely discernible between the sobs. “I-I-I would Never harm Lyanna’s babe.” The hurt caused by the realisation of his brother’s fears tore his heart out of his body and ripped it to shreds in front of him. “Never.”

Ned let out a sigh that reverberated through his entire body. “It was birthing fever that took her. He left her in a tower in Dorne, tied up, and with child. Alone with three Kingsguard knights and no maester. He was driven mad by prophesy, she said, he believed he needed a second daughter. Lya laughed when it was a boy.” A sad smile broke through his face as he finished speaking.

“What did she name him?”

Ned laughed, a guttural, rasping laugh, “The tower she was trapped in was where Daeron the Good signed the agreement that brought Dorne into the realm, and where Daeron the Young Dragon was slain under the rainbow banner of peace. She named him Daeron Snow, an insult to the dead kings.”

His chest heaved with anger and amusement and rage and sadness at the though of Lyanna getting one final passing shot at the house that took so much from her. She always got the last laugh.

“Let me raise him, here in Kingslanding. He is Lya’s son, he should have been my own.”

Ned shook his head, “He belongs in the North. I promised to keep him safe, he will grow up in Winterfell surrounded by family.”

“No. He should be raised with me. By me. I’ll treat him like a son, and when he comes of age I will grant him a holdfast worthy of Lyanna’s son.” He saw the refusal on etched on Eddard’s face. “That is an order from your king.”

Ned was ready argue when Jon Arryn interjected from the side with a small cough. “Maybe you could do both.” He waited until they were both looking at him before continuing. “He can grow up in Winterfell until he is old enough to act a page for Robert.”

Ned made to protest the idea, but Robert interrupted “Excellent idea, will you inform the small council when we meet later?”

Jon nodded, “I will see you both there.” Ned gave a resigned nod before asking leave to find a wet nurse.

“He won’t accept the seat, will he?” He looked over at Jon.

“He wants to go home, to be with his family, process his losses and get to know his wife and child. Master of Laws prevents him from doing that.”

The skulls were watching on as Jon Arryn walked away, apprehension lying heavy in the air thick, humid air.

He sighed, then left to find a strong arbour gold, and to wonder about the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, in this fic Brandon was correct about Rhaegar and Lyanna. What can a 14 year old realistically do against 4 grown men trying to kidnap them?


	2. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daeron's time in Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously: Ned and Robert grow up together in the Vale before they are forced to go to war. After Robert takes the throne he realises the truth about Ned's "Bastard" and demands that the boy be returned to Kingslanding to act as his cupbearer once he is old enough.

**Winterfell, 283ac**

Although summer had been creeping through the North for months, endless fields of white still coated the lands above the neck. The rolling barrowlands stretched on infinity to the west, past Barrowtown and onwards to the Rills.

Memories of the fight beneath the tower fought their way back to forefront of his memory. The blood of Ser Mark Ryswell staining the Red mountains of Dorne as he gave a killing blow to Whent. Willem Dustin bleeding out, after losing an arm to Hightower’s blade. He would have to arrange for their bones to be retrieved. They deserved that much at least.

The image of Lyanna, chained to the bed and wallowing in her own filth as she lay dying still haunted his memory. The so-called knights of the “noble” Kingsguard had held a girl of only five-and-ten name-days down as their prince forced himself on her. It sickened him.

He had spoken to the King about dissolving the order during his time in the capital, but Lord Arryn had refused, talking Robert out of it in a way that only the Lord of Eyrie could. The white wraiths still haunted the Red Keep. He hadn’t even sent Lannister to the wall.

Their entourage was approaching Winterfell now, a welcoming party led by Benjen riding below the heavy clouds that coated the sky. His brother had grown half a head since he marched south, and it was clear he had spent much of the year time in the practice yard. He looked stronger even than Robert had been at that age.

His own party was small; just him, the babe, two Crannogmen, and a handful of soldiers that Lord Cerwyn had sent them off with to see them home. They rode back to Winterfell in a companionable silence. Home at last.

Lady Catelyn received him as they entered the great grey fortress, with a child in hand. He greeted her formally before holding the child, a bundle of red hair and blue eyes. Robert, she had called him, named for the King. Next, he gave his thanks to Rodrik Cassel for running the keep, giving his heartfelt sympathies for the loss of his brother, murdered by Dayne at the tower. He moved down the line of men he did not know, thanking them for services he did not understand. He was no leader. He had not been trained for this. It should have been Brandon here.

It was not until hours later that he found himself alone save for his brother and his wife. He needed someone to cry on as he processed what he had lost. He told of his experiences in the south, Benjen looked a broken man as he heard of Lyanna’s final moments, and Lady Catelyn was shaking when she heard how the King had demanded the child be raised in the capital. She was only just managing to hold back her tears as she requested leave to visit the nursery.

They sat in silence after Lady Catelyn left, watching the fire burn low. The logs rippled orange and red and white and yellow. Flames occasionally flickered across the glowing embers. It was Benjen who eventually broke the silence.

“I’m going to join the night’s watch. Take the black.”

“You can’t. I need you.”

“No you don’t, you have an heir now. What is left for me here? I was planning of waiting until after Lya was married, she was all that was keeping me here.” Benjen stared at his feet, before continuing at a mutter. “And now, the memories are too raw; I can’t stay in Winterfell and there is nowhere else for me to go but the Wall.”

“Family.” He moved over to hold his brother. “Stay for family. What was it father always used to say? When snow falls and the white winds fall, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.” He forced a smile, hoping it would reassure. “We had forgotten that, and it cost us dearly. I’ll give you a lordship when you come of age. Until then, stay. If not for me then for her boy. Please brother.”

Benjen nodded, the grimace still on his face, eyes still trained on the cold stone floor. “Let me think about it.”

He visited Lady Catelyn’s chambers that night, hoping to get to know his wife. Conversation was slow, they were strangers to each other, and the wall of courtesy she hid behind was harder to breach than the twin walls of Winterfell. It was only when she spoke of the children that she opened up. Their child was already a menace at only five moons old. Louder than anything that size had any right to be, but only when least convenient, waiting until the perfect opportunity to throw up over the most expensive clothing he could find, and generally making a nuisance of himself as much as possible.

Talk than turned to Daeron. “When I saw you enter Winterfell with him, I thought he was yours. I was angry. I thought about refusing to let you hold little Robb. I had already decided on insisting he be gone, and then you told us who he is, and I felt immediately terrible.” The shame had turned her face the same shade as her hair. “Later, you said that you did initially intend to claim him as your… _bastard_. Would you have ever told me the truth?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” he answered honestly. The question of who to trust had plagued him through many sleepless nights on the journey from Dorne to the Crownlands. “I don’t know if I would even have told him the truth.” Despite what the king demanded of the boy he was glad that he would never have to face this conundrum. “Anyone who knew would have been compliant. I feared that if Robert ever found out he would demand the head of everyone who knew.”

Lady Catelyn nodded, accepting his answer.

**Winterfell, 287ac**

The early morning sun shone brightly over the eastern horizon, glinting off the last vestiges of summer snow that had been troubling them the previous month. At this point in the cycle of seasons they were lucky to get an hour of darkness at night. If the hot spell that had hit the North over the last week continued, then it may be the last chance to see snow in months.

He should have gone to sleep hours ago, instead he was walking the battlements. He told himself that he was checking the defences in case of a night-time raid, but in truth he was nervous. And proud. At four and five name-days old his two boys would start learning with the sword today.

But now, in the wee hours of the morning the training yard was deserted. A mouse caught his eye scurrying into the armoury. He sighed; another problem he had as of yet failed to deal with. The infestation had been going on for months with no sight of abating.

Continuing his aimless ramble around the ramparts he found himself looking into the vast sprawling Godswood. The area was massive, at three acers in size it encompassed almost one fifth of the castle. The smell of death and life hit him in waves as he entered the primal garden of the gods. He passed sential trees, tall spears piercing the heavens. Proud oaks, regal in their age, their bodies a writhing mass of knots and bows and branches. Ash and hawthorn and roses grew over many of the tracks, herding visitors along the main path. _Not this way_ they said, _Leave us be, this is our kingdom_. The weight of a thousand millenia pushed him towards the centre, the beating heart of the Weirwood tree that sat at the source of the primal power of the castle.

The hours passed as he meditated before the tree, his mind empty of the thought of the world. The sun was high in the sky when he was finally interrupted by Catelyn, carrying little baby Sansa.

“You didn’t sleep last night.” It was neither a question nor an admonishment, just a statement of fact. He nodded. “Do I need to set Maester Luwin on you?” Before he had left to oversee the rebuilding of Moat Calin Benjen had been having a hard time sleeping. It had gone on for near a year before Catelyn had finally dragged his younger brother by the ears to the maester’s tower, and after a week or two of hearing Benjen moaning about the new diet Luwin had foisted upon him and the potions he was forced to endure, Benjen was finally coincided that it had helped greatly.

“No, I just… I can’t believe that they are old enough to fight.” he shook his head, smiling.

Catelyn retuned the grin, “This one was born last week, yet has somehow already past her first name day!” Their laughter seemed to echo through wind, as if the very trees themselves joined in on the joke.

“Father?” The small voice from behind him caught Ned of guard. He turned to see Robb, marching towards them, Daeron sheepishly following behind, eyes fixed on the bone white roots of the heart tree. “Ronny wants to know who his parents are?” Daeron nodded, his eyes still tracing the pale veins that crossed the ground. “You always say that you will tell me about them when I grow up.” It was scarcely more than a mumbled whisper. “We are old enough to use a sword now!” Robb added, “Surely you can tell him.”

Crouching to meet his nephew’s eyes he paused for a moment, deciding on what to say. “Your mother was the most incredible woman I ever met. When she wanted to, she would be wilder and bolder than Robb or calmer than a pool of water. The winter rose, they called her.”

“And my father?”

He shook his head. A frown forced its way across his face. “I’ll tell you when you are older.”

After a moment of silence, Catelyn spoke. “Now boys, master Roderick Cassels is expecting you in the practice yard and I don’t think you should keep him waiting.”

He began walking back towards the main keep. The rest of his family followed after him, Robb boldly striding towards the training yard, Catelyn fussing over little Sansa, and Daeron looking slightly subdued, making shy glances back towards the great Weirwood tree.

**Winterfell, 289ac**

The baby had been wailing for hours before finally exhausting herself. They had named her Arya, after his grandmother, and she was already doing her wild namesake proud, waking the entire castle. Cat must have been the only person asleep, still resting after the birthing.

He could hear the pitter patter of tiny feet long before they arrived in the nursery, Robb bounding in first, followed moments later by Ronny, holding Sansa’s hand. “Is that my new sister?” Robb demanded loudly. “She’s tiny! Can I hold her?”

He smiled and held her out to him. “Be careful, Robb.”

His son looked at the bundle, captivated by awe for a brief moment, before loudly declaring that she was boring. “She doesn’t do anything!” Robb gave her back to him before turning to Ronny. “Come on, follow me!” he ran out of the room in a whirlwind.

Daeron watched him go before facing him. Ned let him hold his newest cousin. “Uncle Ned, do I have any siblings?” He asked, hope etched across is face, looking the very image of Lya at that age.

He sighed, Ronny would have to be told about his father at some point before going south, but it was never the right time. He had forbidden all mention of House Targaryen, other than in maester Luwin’s lessons, within the walls of Winterfell. He just wasn’t ready to face what had happened to Lyanna. “You had a half-brother and half-sister, Rhaenys and Aegon.”

Little Daeron beamed at the information. “Are they like Robb and Sansa? Can I meet them?”

He forced a sad smile onto his face and pulled the boy into an embrace. “They were killed, before you were born.” He said in a soft voice.

“I won’t let that happen to my cousins.” Daeron whispered into his chest.

Ned nodded. _I know you won’t_.

“Hurry up Ronny!” Robb yelled from the doorway. “I want to play swords!”

He smiled at the boy and Daeron scampered off to join Robb under the feet of the servants.

Ned gave charge of Arya and Sansa to Old Nan and made his way to Catelyn’s chambers. Midmorning sun shone through the thick windows, having taken over from the last glows of the dying fire some hours before. She was still asleep, wrapped in blankets and snuggled against the heated walls that made the fortress habitable. For as much as she had adapted to the North and its culture during her time as lady of Winterfell, the cold still bothered her in a way that Ned would never understand.

After leaving Cat to rest in the sweltering room, he went to make his rounds of the Castle, passing through the kitchens, where Gage was already organising the cooks for the evening meal. He greeted Hodor in the stables and Mikken in the forge. Roderick was training the guardsmen in the inner ward and Luwin was going through the accounts. He passed the first keep, the gargoyles atop the great round drum staring down at him, a halo of crows circling above.

His attention was drawn to the raucous noise coming from inside the abandoned tower. He moved towards it to hear what the boys where saying.

“I’m the Blackfish!” yelled Robb, before a series of clatters and bangs erupted from the building.

“Well, _I_ am the Young Dragon!”

The wooden swords met again.

“I’m Theon Stark!”

“And _I_ am Barristan the Bold!”

The crows cawed loudly in the sky as the boys resumed their fight.

“I’m King-beyond-the-Wall Joramun!”

“Then _I_ am Brandon the Breaker!” they laughed.

He smiled, remembering his own childhood in the Vale. He was only a couple of years older than them when he was sent to foster under Lord Arryn alongside Robert. His thoughts soured as he remembered the day in the throne room. He knew he should feel honoured that the King would see Lya’s boy like a son, the Old Gods knew how glad he was that Robert had not wanted him killed, but the boy didn’t belong in the south. He was of the North, a Stark.

 _But he isn’t_ , a treacherous voice whispered in the back of his head. _If you truly believed that then you would tell him about his father_. A small part of him deep down feared what could happen when the boy was told the truth. Would he embrace his royal heritage and his paternal madness? Surely, he wouldn’t. He was all Lyanna, he always would be. But why then was he so reluctant to tell his nephew?

It was the dreams, he supposed. Whenever he asked the heart tree for guidance, his nights would be haunted by terrors. Visions of fire, rivers of blood. A winter that never ends and a dragon that obliterates it all. The message was clear, the Old Gods wanted him a Stark.

The boy would need to know soon. It was less than a year until he was expected in the capital, and he must understand the truth before that happened.

He summoned Daeron to the Godswood that evening. The air was thick and heavy, rain would come later.

“You want to know about you father, don’t you?”

Daeron nodded

“What do you know of why the rebellion occurred?”

“It started when a prince stole mother, then Uncle Brandon and Grandfather were killed trying to get her back.” he recited “Then the old king wanted you and King Robert to die, but you fought and won.”

“The prince was called Rhaegar Targaryen.” He said, trying to keep his voice soft, and his mind calm as he spoke of the events for the first time since he first arrived at Winterfell with Daeron. “And he was a very bad man. When he took your mother Lyanna he did cruel things to her. One of those things caused you to be born.” Gods he was bad at this. He thought he had planned out what he was going to say, but in the moment the words had fled him. _Brandon would know what to say_ he mused sadly, _Brandon always knew what to say_.

After a moment of silence where only the birds cawing overhead could be heard, the child nodded and thanked him before turning to the great tree before them, his eyes closed. Ned, sensing that he wanted to be left alone in contemplation, walked away, leaving his nephew alone with the ghosts.

**Winterfell, 290ac**

In the months since they had spoken under the bleeding bows of the heart tree Daeron had been more… he wasn’t quite sure really. Outspoken? Thoughtful? Reclusive? Impulsive? Ned honestly wasn’t sure what to make of the changes that the boy had been through. Since learning of his father he had spent much of his time in the Godswood in prayer, or in Winterfell’s crypts. Despirte spending more time alone than before, the time spent with his cousins felt like it had increased too, be it hitting Robb with a wooden sword, playing with Sansa and her dolls, or just watching over Arya, telling the baby about his day. He had also tried asking about his father on multiple occasions, from half the staff at Winterfell it seemed.

“What was he like? Was he handsome? Brave?”

“Did he love me?”

All his questions were met with cold, icy silence. Lord Eddard Stark would not suffer talk of that murderous rapist in his halls.

Ned could feel the resentment building up in his nephew’s eyes. He wanted answers, but what he wanted to know Eddard was not prepared to talk about. He could see it in Daeron’s face as he embraced Robb for the last time before they headed south. The anger emanating from the young boy was palpable to him, although no one else appeared to notice it as they moved down the line, past Sansa and finally on to Cat, holding Arya tight against a bitter breeze.

 _At least it isn’t snowing_ he thought as he himself said his farewells to his family. Robb was inconsolable at the though of Ronny leaving, he was old enough to understand that it would likely be a decade before they met again. Sansa however was not. She kept asking when they would be back, and why she couldn’t go with “Won” to the capital as he held her tight, red hair blowing against his face and itching his nose.

At last he got to Cat. Embracing both her and their babe he spoke to her. “I’ll only be gone for a moon, two at the most if the summer snows are bad. Rodrick is castellan, but his is to defer to you on all matters. Remember to take them to the Godswood at least twice a week, and if you need assistance from outside Winterfell, the Cerwyns are closest, but houses Manderly and Reed are ever-loyal.” He lent back with a smile. “But you’ll be fine without me, I know it.”

“Of course I will, I practically run the North as it is!” she laughed

Despite the cold spell that covered the North, summer snow did not fall. They made good progress down the Kingsroad, passing the Moat after only a week and a half of travel. Benjin had made a decent start to construction, the Children’s tower now fit for purpose, it’s formerly open top now unmarred by crumbling stone proudly pointed to the sky, and the Drunkards tower no longer lent as if at any moment it would crumple into the marsh.

Benjen looked haggard, exhausted from overseeing the construction, the stress of the project visibly taking its toll on the young man. He greeted Ned as a nervous wreck, havering madly about every problem they had found over the course of rebuilding the fortress. but despite it all, he had been doing a reasonably good job managing the venture.

“I’m going to the wall.” Benjen declared “As soon as this is over, I’ll name Wee Ronny my heir, then take the black.”

Ned sighed in defeat, this was a battle he would not win. “We’ll talk on this when I return from the capital.”

Travel was slower south of the Neck. The roads became more congested as they entered the Riverlands, and the warm humidity that clung to the air with vengeance had the party of Northmen in a foul mood. A thousand memories from the rebellion met them on the road.

They passed the valley in which he had killed his first man, a crownland knight of house Hogg. Ser Stuart, he had said as he lay dying in a crimson puddle of his own lifeblood, he had asked that Ned tell his family that he had died well. Another broken promise. The knight had been fast, he recalled. Faster than most, with a decent skill set and a strong defensive ability, but he had slipped in the mud, and dropped his sword. Ned still remembered his face, round with a well-trimmed beard and his hair shaved almost to the scalp. He couldn’t recall the faces of his companions at the tower of joy, men he rode with for moons during the war, but this knight he fought against once still haunted his memory.

They passed the Ruby Ford quickly, none of their party wishing to linger over the site the rebellion had been won. The site the sire of his sister’s son had died.

They found Kingslanding abuzz with fevered activity, an army of ants in red and gold scuttled along the great curtain walls that surrounded the city. Lines of men running from the docks into the winding streets and closed off closes ferried material into ships.

They were met at the gates of Kingslanding not by the King or his Hand, but instead by an older man with greying hair and a quartered sigil of black dragons and golden eyes emblazoned across his surcote. Lord Tristan Vance of Wayfarers Rest, Master of Laws. Ned had met the man during the rebellion, a slimy politician with a face that screamed for a meeting with a fist, he had been late to the battle of Stoney Sept, and during the battle of the Trident had placed his own troops in the rear of the field. His was one of the few houses to come out of the sordid affair in a stronger position than before the war. But despite Ned’s dislike of the man, he was at least a loyal servant to his goodfather in Riverrun, more than could be said of many vassals of Lord Tully.

He was summoned immediately to the chamber of the small council, to present his nephew to the king, and to “Discuss urgent matters of state” as Lord Vance said, his smile as false as a bear in midwinter. Ned followed the man through the winding city, thankful he was atop his horse. Rivers of filth cascaded down Aegon’s high hill; a torrent of ungodly waste ran free towards the sea.

The council was in the middle of a heated discussion as they entered. “Lannisport has burnt, your grace, and you want to muster our forces at Seaguard!” Croaked the wizened old grandmaester, Pycell was his name he remembered. “Have you lost your mind? Your goodfather has lost his fleet and you abandon him to the squids!”

Lord Vance coughed quietly to capture the attention of the room, before introducing them to the council. “May I present Lord Stark, and his nephew the cupbearer to his grace Daeron Snow.”

“Ned!” Robert leaped out of his seat and moved towards his friend. “It’s been too long, get over here!” The king wrapped him in a ferocious embrace. “You’re not too tired from the road to meet me in the yard, are you? It’s been too long since I faced someone unafraid of hitting me.”

“I’m yours to command, your grace. How has the crown been suiting you, can you still wield that damn hammer?”

Robert met his gaze, an empty sadness bore great holes deep into his eyes. He answered in a surprisingly quiet voice, such that only Ned could hear. “Honestly, it’s shite. I can’t do anything without the approval of the council, but you will never meet a more obstinate group of bootlickers than these.”

Ned glanced across the men, eyeing them up.

Jon Arryn sat at the foot of the table, still strong despite his age, looking closer to a man of fifty name days rather than the seventy he had lived through. He wore a doublet of cream with sky-blue linings, a cloak draped across his back, its colours reversed. Though his face bore more creases than seven years prior, it held the same stern look as ever.

To his left was the Master of Coin, Robert’s maternal grandsire, Lord Estermont. He must have been a jovial man in his youth, laugh lines ran around Lord Eldon’s face, but little joy shone their now.

Lord Vance took his seat next to the Lord of Greenstone, his dark clothing matched his expression. Seeing Ned fix his gaze he gave a smile, though it did not meet his eyes.

In the corner of the room stood Ser Baristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, a pale wraith draped in a ghostly white. Alert to every threat, he watched the entire chamber with a diligence and zeal that was rivalled by none. He exuded an air of confidence few half his age could boast of. Even well past fifty he was a formidable warrior.

The Grandmaester on the other hand looked as if a strong gust could blow him over. The years had not been kind to him, his robe lay loose around his sagging skin, bags around his eyes betrayed his exhaustion and the smell of decay wafted off him as he slouched into his seat.

By contrast, Lord Stannis sat straight as a rod, black and gold extenuating his sever demeaner. Clean shaven and already beginning to go bald he made a sharp contrast with Robert, only further stressed by the build of the two men. Where the king was broad and muscular his brother was as though a sword had been given a face. _And from what I’ve heard, he is as unyielding as iron._

Varys sat was perched in the final seat, his face an unreadable mask. His perfumes battled for dominance with the other smells of the room, and for the most part they were winning. His silk tunic was loose fitting and it bore no heraldry. He watched in on in silence, a glint of light sparkled in his deep blue eyes giving the impression that he knew every dark secret and sordid truth that the universe had to offer, and was not afraid to use his knowledge to further his agenda.

Ned gave the king a sympathetic smile. “They cannot be that bad, can they? They are _your_ advisors, aren’t they?”

Robert gave a sigh. “You’d think that, but the only powers Jon trusts me with are feasts and tourneys.”

After introductions had been made, and Daeron sent to see his chambers, the council returned to the matter they had been discussing before his arrival. Balon Greyjoy had risen up in rebellion, sending his brother Euron to the Westerlands to burn the Lannister fleet.

The tactics put forward by Lords Vance and Estermont, two politicians with little military experience and their lands located on the eastern coast, were quickly dismissed as untenable by the council, as they favoured a defensive strategy of reinforcing costal keeps and townships, and avoiding direct conflict at sea. It relied upon forcing the reavers into ever more costly raids until they could no longer afford to lose men, before ferrying loyalist forces across Cape Kraken while avoiding the Iron Fleet.

As master of Ships, Lord Stannis preferred an entirely naval campaign, using the combined fleets of Westeros to blockade the Islands, starving the people until they had no choice but to surrender.

Ser Barristan argued that should Great Wyk and Harlaw fall, the command structure of the Iron Isles would be shattered, the archapeligo cut in half as the two largest islands were taken from the rebels.

The Hand directed the discussion, indicating whom should speak and when. Throughout the talk he never once turned to address the King, only his advisors. On the one occasion when Robert tried to speak, Lord Arryn spoke over him as if he was not even there.

Cut out of the conversation completely and with nothing to do but drink, the King was getting increasingly inebriated. It was only after the council had decided on a course of action – crippling the Iron Fleet before invading the islands – did Jon Arryn let Robert enter the conversation, but even then, his contributions were minimised to the point that he could do barely more than give the proposal the royal seal of approval.

Ned spoke to Robert about it at the feast that evening. “Is it normally that bad?”

Robert sighed; his arm was a pillar holding up his head. “I don’t know why I fucking bother going, honestly.”

“Can you not replace them with better men?”

“Would that I could, Ned, would that I could.” He laughed a bitter laugh. “But Jon won’t let me, and if I lose him, well, there are more than enough lions prowling the Keep as it is.”

Ned gave his friend a sympathetic smile “Surely kingship can’t be _that_ bad, can it? Else why would anyone covet it?”

That sent Robert into a scowl “Taking the crown was a mistake.” he muttered, before downing his tankard “Fuck this feast, we have a war to fight, I’m going to my bloody bed.” He lurched to his feet before stumbling off towards his chambers, leaving Ned behind.

It was six days later that preparations for war where complete, and their march was to begin. During that time, when he was not serving the King’s cupbearer, Daeron had mostly kept to his room and the Godswood, alone aside for Jory acting as his sworn sword.

Ned had been busy aiding the preparations for war and organising for his bannermen to meet him at Seaguard, so had not spent much time with his nephew, and now, as he was saying his goodbyes he could see the hurt on the wee boy’s face. He prayed to the Old Gods that Daeron would forgive him for leaving him here, but his time with the Starks was over, and now with Robet going to war, he would be alone in Kingslanding, surrounded by Lannisters.

All that Ned could do was hope that they didn’t repeat what had happened to Daeron’s siblings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody who knows the timeline should be surprised that he arrives during the Greyjoy rebellion. If you are wondering where Bran is, he will be born in about 6/7 months from the end of this chapter.  
> Next time: We go back in time a little to see Daeron's recation to learing who his father is, and we how Daeron will fare in a city ruled by Lions.
> 
> Posted 18/08/2020


	3. The Red Keep is a Lonely Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daeron settles into life in the Red Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised you guys weekly updates, and I am a man of my word. 
> 
> What's that? A Month? Really? Oh, shit.
> 
> Previously: Robert demands that the Son of Lyanna and Rhaegar be brought to Kingslanding at the age of 7, to act as page and later squire to the King. Eddard takes him to be raised in Winterfell where any mention of the Dragon Kings is forbidden, leaving Daeron not knowing who his father is, and longing for a family of his own. When he turns 7 he goes to Kingslanding only to arrive to the news of the Greyjoy rebellion.

**Winterfell, 289ac**

The bone coloured face looked down to him in the milky flood of moonlight, as the crows circled above the bleeding tears of the weeping tree. Daeron sat in silence as the morose face stared down, judging him. The wind whispered silent nothings in the fiery bows of the great heart tree. For as long as he had understood that Uncle Ned was not his father, and that Robb was not his brother, all he had wanted was a family to call his own.

He had dreamed of it sometimes, a man with unknowable features and dark shining eyes holding him tight, a brother not much older than him to play with him, blue hair flying in the wind. But when he woke the vision would fade, and he would feel the same longing in his heart he always did when he saw his cousin Robb. A longing for something stolen from him.

Daeron knew that whenever he needed someone to talk to, he could go to the man who raised him. But there was always a distance between him and Uncle Ned. A sadness in his eyes as if his very existence caused him pain. It was as though an imperceptible veil was draped between them.

Aunt Catelyn tried to be a mother to him, but no matter how hard she tried, how often she called him ‘Son’ she could never manage to make herself believe it. It was in little things that this was shown. Comforting Robb or Sansa rather him, or never asking him about his day, instead questioning Robb about their many escapades.

So here he sat, alone before his mother’s gods, the heart tree proud and strong as the sound of wind in the leaves gave him comfort. He did not know how much time had passed, one moment the sun was high above him, the evening light was clear and warm, then next he could see the crows settle in, to roost. Daeron had missed dinner but felt no hunger. He was tired though. Very tired. He tried to stand, to bring himself back to his chambers, but his legs would not take him. He took three feeble shuddering steps before they could carry him no further. It was raining, he realised. It had been for some time. Puddles formed around his head as he closed his eyes. The world went black.

He dreamed a dream of darkness as a cold mist descended. A man of pure silver rode a horse of shining crystal into the swirling fog above him. Higher it rode, higher up into the heavens, taking the mist with him until all he could make out was a lone star in a pitch-black sky.

The star fell to earth, but now it was an eye, a single eye of light that promised nought but darkness. A blinding flash echoed around him and the eye turned red. The mist returned, forming shapes in the pale moonlight. A man scarce more than a skeleton prowled the darkness with a bow. He stalked behind the cold red eye suspended in the ether until his skull was in line with the orb. The mist shifted again, forming a tree around the man. The Weirwood tree smiled down on him, crows streaming from its branches.

He looked around him and saw a forest grow around him, a single path leading to the heart tree. It was the godswood of Winterfell, he knew without thinking. A lone bird landed before him. _Follow_ she called to him, _Follow_. It flew along the path. _Follow_. He did as he was bid, and as he walked the trees turned to spikes behind him. Great jagged shards of jet black that drank up the light, spitting back nothing but a shimmer. Bones lined the floor, the broken bodies of those who walked this path before.

They had left the Godswood now, entering a corrupted visage of Winterfell’s main courtyard. The crow turned, making towards the first keep. _Follow_ it called as it flew straight through the oaken door. He found himself walking down the endless steps cut into the rock, winding chasms and chambers that held the future denizens of house Stark. The crow paused before the statue of his mother. With a caw, the statue woke. It spoke with an ancient voice, frail and aged a hundred years. “Go” it said “Find” It was pointing down crypts, deeper into the earth, deeper into the past. “Keep” He looked again at his mother, and a single eye stared back. “Give”

The crow was flying again, and he ran after it. Further down they went. The past a score of Lords and second sons, past Beron and Artos, Lonnel Snow and Jonnel Stark, half a dozen Brandons rested in the tombs they past until they reached the stone coffin they were searching for. _Cregan Stark_ he knew, though he could not say how.

Something clawed to escape the grave, scraping at the cold dead stone. The granite crumbled before him as he tried to run but his legs refused to obey him. Turning back to face the creature, he saw a lick of flame break free from the crack that had formed. A scaled shadow of purest gold crawled towards him, climbing up his leg and perching on his shoulder.

A river ran before him now, vast and old, its black water rippled with life and death. A boat rode the waves, the tiller unmanned, it careened towards a torrent of falling water. A lone boy stood at the helm, his hair as blue as his eyes. _Help him_ the crow’s call echoed around the void. _Give_.

He moved towards the boat, and somehow found himself on it. Spiders scuttled across the deck as far above, a star fell to earth. Hidden in the shadows he watched as an eagle that turned into a lion then back into an eagle again, its feathers mottled, its fur coated in blood proweled the deck as a silent guardsman.

The dragon jumped from his shoulder to the boy’s, and his heart felt complete.

The world shifted again, and what was one a river was turned to ice. He was alone, far above a field of snow and trees that grew from the void. The Wall shattered, and as he fell to earth shards of dark ice coalesced around him. He was armoured in ice as the men of Winterfell approached him, stumbling. Their liveries torn, their faces drained. And their eyes shone with the frozen light of the bluest stars. They surrounded him, watching his every move. He saw Jory and Harwin, Old Nan and Hodor. Aunt Catelyn and Uncle Ned. Robb and Sansa and baby Arya. They all watched him; anger, hatred, loathing in their eyes.

The golden dragon flew above, larger now. The blue haired boy was a man now, his hair matched his mount.

_They will never love you as we will._

A frigid breeze blew over him snow began to fall.

He woke with a shudder.

The crow from the dream was staring at him. _Come_ it cawed, and he followed. Deep into the earth where Starks go in death. The air was dank. Water dripped from the walls, pooling beneath the statues of those who came before him. _Robb has an alcove_ he mused, _and Sansa and Arya, and even Uncle Ned_.

He didn’t.

_They will never love you as we will._

He no longer wished to think of his family. It hurt too much. The flagstone from the dream was loose. It creaked open, dust wafting in his face. Slaters scuttled from the dank cover they had hidden under. He peered in and found an iridescent gold orb flecked with orange. It caught what little light reached it, throwing it back with a shimmering glitter. He picked it up, and it was a ball of ice in his hands, but it throbbed with a primordial heartbeat.

 _Keep_. The bird cawed in the darkness. _Hide,_ It echoed into the endless caverns below. _Give. Give. Give._

He hid it in his chambers, telling no one. Not even Robb.

It was his secret for the rest of his time in Winterfell.

**The Red Keep, 290ac**

He had been abandoned, forgotten, forsaken. He was alone in a smelly ugly castle that was almost pink in the evening light. Pink! Only girls like pink. The castle had been so busy when they had arrived. Servants storming from one side of the Keep to the other and children running around under their feet. But now all the adults had gone with the King. There was a war, they said. A squid had attacked a lion, and the King needed to sort it out.

The children were subdued too. Almost everyone had a father who had gone to war. He didn’t. All he had was a stupid uncle who had left him here. He missed Robb. He missed running around the First Keep of Winterfell hitting his cousin with a sword. He longed for Sansa to tie stupid ugly pink ribbons in his hair. He even missed baby Arya reaching up and pulling on his hair.

He had tried making friends at first. He went to the training yard and went up to a group of boys his age. They were sons of Westerland nobles, he later learned. Lord Quentin Baneford’s nephew led the group, but it included sons of houses Payne, Lefford, Serrett, and Marbrand, as well as a half dozen other minor houses. It was Ser Fager Lefford’s firstborn that recognised him first, a stocky boy of one-and-ten named Zander.

They had surrounded him, backed him against a wall and started shoving him. He had bruises on his shins for a week, his concussion kept him abed for three whole days, and the scab on the back of his head was still there almost a moon’s turn later. But it was what they had said that had hurt the most. They had called his mother a treacherous, traitorous whore. A wild seductress who was grasping for power. They told him his father was a rapist, and his grandfather an insane murderer. They said that his brother and sister had deserved their fate, slain in the very halls he now walked. They called him a bastard dragonspawn, born of rape. They said that his family where all murderous lunatics deserving of nothing more than slow and painful deaths. And they said he would be worse than any of them.

The only person who actually cared for him here was Maester Tommyn, A kindly old man in his mid-fifties with eyes the colour of spring harebells and grey hair verging on silver. It was Maester Tommyn who had been put in charge of his education. Like Maester Luwin at Winterfell he wore a grey cloak with hundreds and thousands of pockets, but unlike Luwin, his where filled with candied peel and honey cakes and all manner of other sweets. After his encounter with the squires from the Westerlands, Maester Tommyn had stayed by his bedside near constantly, tending to Daerons wounds and watching his recovery. He told stories of his life, from his time growing up as the bastard of Lord Merryweather’s sister, before his father had payed passage to the Citadel of Oldtown, where he had exceled at arithmetic and history. After serving in the Red Keep for near forty years, the old Maester had many stories of the Dragon Kings of Daeron’s paternal family. Daeron sat and listened as Maester Tommyn regaled him with tales of his father’s family. He spoke of Daeron’s sister, who would never go anywhere without her cat, a big black terror called Balerion. He told of how his father prince Rheagar’s eyes lit up during lessons. He described the way Queen Rhaella held herself with such dignity and poise, and he spoke of the early years of King Aerys’ rule, so filled grand plans to better the realm, only to be crushed by his cruel Hand, Lord Tywin.

Since the incident in the training yard Daeron had scarce left his chamber other than for his lessons with Maester Tommyn or to the Godswood to pray. The one here in the Red Keep is but a crude imitation of what he had grown used to in Winterfell, yet he still felt a presence before the heart tree.

His dreams where haunted by the lonely boy with the bright blue hair, stood at the helm of a boat. Sometimes he even imagined that the boy saw him, though whenever that occurred the bloody hands of a Weirwood tree would reach out to grab him, waking him from the vision.

He had learnt quickly that men sworn to House Lannister would treat him most harshly, scorning his presence, and mocking him. His only companion from Winterfell was Jory Cassel, left behind by his uncle to act as his sworn shield, but after the red cloaks began mocking him for guarding Daeron, Jory became reluctant to spend any more time than necessary with him.

Daeron didn’t understand why Uncle Eddard had bothered leaving him a guard, when he had abandoned him here. Suffocated by the loneliness, he often found himself sat in his room alone, gazing out the window as the Blackwater Bay surged with boats. Fishing skiffs and trading galleys gliding through the firth in a crisscross of activity that Daeron longed to experience, trapped in the monotony of life in the Red Keep of Kingslanding.

The shadows stalked through his room one night, around three moons after he had arrived in Kingslanding. He had spent the day in lessons with Maester Tommyn learning Arithmetic, the maetser’s favourite topic, before being going over the trade relations between the seven kingdoms. Maester Tommyn said that if he picked it up quickly then he could start learning about basic economics by the next moon’s turn. As the king’s cupbearer and future squire, it was expected for him to know these things, Daeron was told.

Sleep came difficult to him since learning of his sibling’s fate, slain in the very castle that he now called home. A mouse came scuttling out of a crack in the wall and scurried right up to him. It squeaked loudly, beady eyes staring straight through Daeron’s soul. It turned back towards wall but stopped on a flagstone in the corner of the room.

Claws scraped on solid stone as the creature squealed and squeaked trying to dig through the slab. Daeron got up and approached the mouse, who stopped its frenzied activity and stared at him.

“You want me to look at this, eh?” he mumbled to the mouse, and was answered by a squeak.

He bent down to examine the slab and found that it was loose. He heaved it up with all his might and peering into the black below he was surprised to find a hole with a ladder bolted onto the side of the tunnel. He lit a candle and snuck into the depths.

The damp air clawed at his throat as he struggled to breath in the stale draft. Water dripped from the ceiling and pooled in the channels gashed into the floor. His candle flickered in a feeble attempt to stave of the all-consuming darkness that enveloped him. Shadows danced in merry jigs, mocking his terror.

The tunnels were a writhing mass of ever-crossing pathways built into the spaces between the chambers and the corridors of the Red Keep. Daeron followed as they turned first this way, and then that. The air had a dankness to it that lacked any essence of humidity, yet swallowed sound and light alike.

He slipped on the greasy stone, the candle flaring into darkness as it fell to the cold stone floor. The crash of his head on the dank floor of the dark void he found himself in reverberated through eternity.

Blinking, Daeron looked around. He adjusted himself to the black, except it was no longer black. Dim light seeped through the cracks in the mortar and holes in the wall, meandering through the gaps in the blood red structure. A barrage of smells assaulted his nose, sweet perfumes fought with damp and mould and with the thousand stenches that called the city their home.

The ground was far closer than it should be, he realised, the surroundings too large, and when he tried to stand, he struggled to stay upright for longer than a handful of seconds. It was then that Daeron noticed that his body felt… wrong, in some way. Like his limbs were too short, his head too large, and his body too round. He scurried along the gutter, letting the flow of water carry him in a direction that Daeron inexplicably knew was the way he must go.

Smoke filled his nose now. Not much, but enough to tell him that a flame had recently gone out. _Mayhaps they can help me,_ he thought. He was lost, he knew that much, lost and scared and alone. More so than every before. At least for the last months he had Jory, and Maester Tommyn. But now, now nobody knew where he was. Not even himself.

A vast hulking mass came into view as Daeron turned a bend. A human, he knew, unconscious but breathing, lying in the drainage channel, damming the water in the tunnel. He crawled towards the person, only to catch sight of the face.

It was him. Daeron would know his own face anywhere, and it was him. Splayed out in the tunnel insensate.

He turned away, scampering across the pooling water, the face of a mouse staring back at his as he fled across the growing lake.

He was a monster out of Old Nan’s stories, Daeron thought. Warg. Skinchanger. Body thief. He recalled the tales told by Winterfell’s ancient nurse, huddled around the fireplace while the summer snows fell in a thick fury. Scary stories had never been his favourite. Ofttimes, after hearing tales of the Warg Kings of Seadragon point or terrifying power that Bloodraven was said to have wielded he would wake in the night, shaking with fear, with no memory of the dream that had haunted him.

But now the dreams were real. And he was the monster.

Through the tunnels he ran. The twisting, tumbeling turns constricting around him. He had entered the main part of the keep now, and occasionally he could make out conversations floating through the air. Daeron kept on running.

Eventually he caught the sound of a voice he recognised. He crept closer, intruding on the conversation. He saw Maester Tommyn in quiet conversation with the bald man from the Small Council.

“… will be leaving the city soon, my friend across the sea fears that if he stays for too long, he may be noticed, and the guardian is keen to get back in touch with his old company.”

“Are you sure it’s wise to leave him in the care of that guardian, he was never the most… respectful man, and I fear his exile will not have helped matters. I have concerns that leaving our great-nephew’s education in the sole hands of him and the septa will leave him unprepared for his duty.” Maester Tommyn replied.

“Yes” the bald man sighed, “I know of your concerns. I will send them your halfmaester when I feel it is safe to do so, and not before.”

Daeron knew it was wrong to intrude, but he couldn’t help himself as he crept closer, not wanting to miss a word. His heart fluttered like an autumnal leaf falling through the wind.

“Is there anything else I should know about him?” The maesters voice was like water trickling over the rocks of the little burn in the Wolfswood that he loved to visit.

“The boy has been having dreams, the guardian fears that it may be like his father. He refuses to say what they are about, though they frighten him most terribly.”

“I trust that the healers are giving him all due care?”

The bald man nodded. “Naturally, everything we do relies on his wellbeing. But enough about him, tell me how his brother fares?”

Maester Tommyn smiled sadly. “He is more studious that even his father was, he could prove a most skilful politician when grown, though he shows little interest in the sword after the incident in the training yard.”

“A shame, my birds told me he held some promise before he arrived. But you know what I was asking, can he be made useful for our purposes?”

Hidden in the corner of the room Daeron found his curiosity piqued. _Who are these myserious boys?_

At that, Tommyn laughed. “Oh yes, I don’t see any trouble there, dear brother. He knows almost nothing of his past, and the isolation here is driving him towards kinship, in any form. It won’t be difficult to make him of use to us.” The maester lent forwards. “Are you still resolutely refusing to involve the hidden one’s uncles?”

“I fear that Tywin watches too closely to make contact with them, and even if he didn’t, I don’t trust them not to act rashly.”

A shadow crept across the wall behind Daeron. Some instinctual urge pulled at him to move, but he did not want to miss the conversation.

“We need them on board, without them all our plans are for naught. I say that you should talk to them, let them know our intentions. Besides, they deserve to know the truth, after all it is their- ” The sentence was cut off by a ferocious yowl and a piercing pain in his flank. Daeron turned to see the monstrous face of a big black cat staring down at him.

The world devolved into a burning flash of icy darkness.

Darkness swam as the earth shook around Daeron. Someone had their hands gripping him, jolting him awake. The world formed around him in the dim light of the tunnel. _I was exploring_ Daeron remembered. _I fell, hit my head, and then… and then… mouse?_ Daeron frowned, shook his head. His thought where not yet coherent. _It must have been imagined._

It was a boy who had rescued him. Only a year or so younger than Daeron was himself. But the child was skinny. A pile of bones with skin held taught, thread bare clothes draped over, stained with blood and mud and sweat.

“Hello” He said, smiling at his rescuer. “I don’t suppose you could help me; I seem to have got lost.”

A breathy laugh left the lips of the boy. He nodded, smiling back before gesturing to follow and turning to walk away.

“Who are you?” Daeron was following the mysterious child now as he navigated through the catacombs with a practiced ease that could only come from perfect knowledge of the winding pathways. He stopped and turned to the wall, scratching at the stone with a lump of charcoal sharpened to a point. _Bhatti_ , the boy had scribbled. “Is that your name?”

He nodded before turning to continue walking. Footsteps whispered around him in a deafening cascade. They walked without a light, relying on Bhatti’s knowledge of the winding wormholes in the blood red walls, the only light coming from cracks or spyholes built into the structure.

“Are you a mute?” Daeron asked Bhatti. Momentary silence descended before a nod was given in response. “Is this where you live?” Again, a nod.

“Do many people live in here?” _Yes._

“Are you lonely?” _No._

“Do you have friends?” _Yes._

“Can I meet them?” _Shrug._

“Can I be your friend?”

The echo reverberated into the infinite, and a pause stretched out to meet it before Bhatti finally nodded his head. _Yes._

The had turned a final corner, and the light streaming down from his removed flagstone coated the walls of the tunnel, setting it ablaze against the never-ending void of darkness from whence they were emerging.

Turning to his new friend, he invited Bhatti to join him for some food. “Be quiet though, we don’t want to worry Jory.” There was fruit laid out on the table. Red apples from New Barrel, golden grapes from the Arbour, honeydew melons from the Vale of Arryn.

At first they conversed using the chalk and slate that was intended for his lessons, but by the time that the sun had begun to rise over the Red Keep Bhatti had begun to teach Daeron how to communicate though hand gestures and facial expressions.

By the time that the moon had next turned Daeron was almost able to hold a silent conversation with the boy from the tunnel, and meeting with Bhatti had become a regular part of his day. In the mornings he would practice his swordplay with some page or young squire to a knight that Bhatti would suggest might be accommodating, afternoons were spent with Maester Tommyn, the conversation he had dreamed still stuck in his mind, though he never brought it up with anyone, and he spent his nights with Bhatti, or occasionally one of his friends.

The birds, as they called themselves, seemed to know everything except how to speak. They always knew of every piece of new that occurred in the castle. When an anonymous love poem was tied to an arrow and shot through Lady Jeyne Cory’s window, Ser Greig of Laid Law was named the culprit. After Lord Robb Shaw had his Greatsword stolen it was Bhatti who had known that it would turn up in the chambers of Ser Jon of Barclay. There was barely a secret in the whole citadel of lies that Bhatti did not know.

It took near ten moons for the King and Uncle Ned to put down the Greyjoy rebellion, and in that time Daeron had memorised the trade links that bound the realm together, and he could name the marriage alliances of all the houses in the Crownlands. He could tell you the key pressures each of the great lords faced, both internal and external; how Sunspear was reliant on trade passing through the Myr-Tyrosh alliance to keep their economy stable, how Lord Stannis’ marriage to the Florent’s of Brightwater Keep prevented the Tyrells complete dominance over the Reach, and how spiralling debt in the Vale was threatening the security of house Arryn.

All this, Maester Tommyn assured him, would stand him in good stead for when the King returned from the Iron Islands, and his duties as a page would truly begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, it's just *Sighs* reasons. 
> 
> So, now the real plot begins. I would be interested to know how people who don't know my plans for the end of the story interpret the dream sequence.
> 
> Next time: Robert returns to the capital, we skip through the next few years. It will probably have multiple POVs but I will try to avoid that
> 
> Posted 17/09/20


	4. The Weight of the Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert returns from war and attends a Small Council Meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously:  
> At the age of seven Daeron Snow is brought to the Red Keep to act as Cub Bearer and Page to King Robert. In the months that Robert is away fighting the Greyjoy Rebellion Daeron is bullied by the other squires, but finds a friend in the Maester overseeing his education. After getting lost in the tunnels of the Red Keep he overhears a conversation between Varys and the Maester before befriending a boy he meets in the tunnels.

**291, The Red Keep**

The deafening din clattered of his head as Robert entered the city to riotous celebrations. Ser Baristan rode aside him, ensuring he would not fall. The other Kingsguard knights rode out in front, save for Trant who had been left behind to guard the Queen, their snowy cloaks gliding through the air as they danced through the streets. Great billows of white trailing the men as they passed the cheering crowds their stoic faces frozen firm, as if not even noticing the attention from the masses. _How do they do it?_ He mused, as the winding streets spun beneath his mount.

He had only slept a wink that night, knowing that the ship would dock today. Nightmares haunted his unconscious mind as he failed to rest in the ever-rocking vessel. It was the constant swaying of the dark underbelly of the cog that had tricked him into drinking far more than he should have. So here he was, the triumphant monarch returning from a victorious war, almost too drunk to sit his horse, and struggling to keep down his meal as he rode the stinking cobbles of his capital.

The Red Keep came into view as he rounded the Hook, he could see gold cloaks and men at arms lining the crimson walls of the great red holdfast. To the east, hung low in the sky sat the sun, shining its golden spears through gaps in the heavy grey clouds. A half moon dangled to the North, pale against the light blue that dotted between the stormy clouds. It was cold, colder than it should have been for a late spring morning. The White Raven that heralded the end of winter have arrived well over a year ago, yet summer still hadn’t truly arrived in King’s Landing. _It better bloody get here soon._ He had been hearing reports of rumours from the small folk claiming that he was a cursed king, doomed to never see summer. The sooner those whispers stopped, the better.

Glancing over to Ser Baristan he caught a glimpse of his reflection glistening in his polished armour. The white tint to the helm gave his mirage an icy hue to it, as if he was viewing himself through a frozen pond, or straight through the eyes of the moon itself. He looked strong. Stronger than he felt any way. The black doublet and golden cloak almost made him appear regal, the way it had been cut managing to disguise some of the fat as muscle, giving him the illusion of an imposing figure. A golden crown rested atop his head, a shimmering halo in the warm yellow sunlight.

As he entered the courtyard a ripple shot through the crowd as the men took to their knees. He looked around, picking out faces he could recognise. His wife was stood in the centre of the yard, cold and uncaring, their children to her left. Behind them stood Trant, his cold eyes glazed over in an unfocused and empty stare. Beyond them stood his small council; Pycell, Estermont, Varys, Arryn and Vance. Next to them waited Ser Aron Santagar, Master at Arms for the Red Keep, stood with the head steward and commander of the gold cloaks and two dozen other positioned men he could not name by sight. Robert greeted his wife with a polite dip of the head and a formal smile before moving on to his children. Joffery was complained loudly about the cold before squirming out of his hug, but Myrcella welcomed him home with a sweet smile and a curtsy. Jon Arryn was grim faced as the King turned to is Hand. “The Red Keep is Yours, your Grace.” He bowed his head “We have much to discuss, Robert.”

The others kept their reception formal and brief. Varys said nothing though his eyes spoke volumes, if in a language none understood, while his Grandfather was barely holding back the urge to pull him into an embrace, only propriety holding him back. _Fuck propriety_ he thought, longing for the days where he could just be Robert instead of The King, _it ruins everything._ But he moved on down the line regardless.

He took one last look around the courtyard before moving inside. Robert needed a rest. In truth he was shattered. Insomnia had been gnawing away at him for weeks now, but sleep did naught but send him in to the vicious fangs of night terrors. He wanted a drink and some time alone before the needs of the court returned to hound him tomorrow.

Glancing over at the squires sanding high on the curtain wall to the north he saw grandfathers squire, Lord Dondarrion. He would be earning his spurs soon, no doubt. Stood with him was young Marq Piper and Marwyn Belmore, in service to Lord Vance and Jon Arryn respectively, and just to the side of them was a small boy with a long face and deep grey eyes. The moon shone pale and white behind him, a cold halo ringing round his head, defiant of the clouds and sun. He wore a dark grey cloak, made from thick wool, and held together with a silver clasp wrought in the shape of a Weirwood tree grinning down. His surcoat was embroidered with a white wolf running free, the inversed Sigel of his mothers’ house. He looked the very image of Eddard Stark in his icy youth.

Daeron looked so different to the golden-haired shit that Tywin had foisted on him during his brief stay in Casterly Rock. Lanner Lannister had spent their entire journey here complaining. _The tent is too cold. It’s raining. The lizard bastard has stolen Tyreck’s place._ The boy never did it when he thought Robert could hear him, but the fool had lost any sense that he might have inherited from Ser Kevan. Lannet seemed to think that both him and his brother would be granted the honour of being named as cupbearers to the King. _They likely would have had Daeron not already taken one position._

He drank his way through the welcoming feast. He was in no mood to celebrate, instead ordering Lancel to ply him with wine until he was too insensate to dream, until even the memories fled before his drunken stupor. He retired early, leaving the hall still packed with revellers as he trudged his way unsteadily through shadowy halls of the castle, the muffled sounds of celebration echoing through the empty corridors.

He dreams were vile, snaking, writhing masses full of blood and fear and mud and death, death, death. Always death. The matted corpses of former friends and long-term enemies stared at him unseeing, their eyes dulled by the Strangers clawing grasp. And in the middle of it all she lay there, bleeding out in pain and fear. Her long face, pale and shaking. Grey eyes, wide and bloodshot, drowning in fear as the fever spread through her ever-weakening body. She looked as cold as ice, the dream swirling in and out of reality around him as she burnt up under the fire of the Dornish sun.

And then it was over.

King Robert rose with the sun, the dawn chorus of birdsong filling his chamber with the sweet sound of the endless future. It was jarring, to hear such beauty after the terrors he had awoken from. The musical chirping pulling him from the bloody visons of the horrors of war. For weeks his nights had been haunted by the dismembered spectres of those his reign had failed. _There is no colour worse than blood-soaked mud._

It was such a pointless war, he grieved, the realisation of the extent of his failure writ plain across the many graves that now scarred the Iron Islands. He would not pay such a bloody price again.

Robert broke his fast alone, the Queen having not yet risen after her retirement from the feast the previous night. He would have to ask the Kingsguard on duty whether she was ill, _was it the Kingslayer who drew that unenviable task?_ He sometimes pitied the man, the amount of time he spent with his vile sister. That woman was truly foul, yet as her husband Robert had a duty to at least pretend to care for her.

After he had eaten his fill, Robert made his way to the training yard. The grassy expanse was disappointingly lacking in skilled opponents at the time he made his way there, only a few squires and pages practicing in the early morning sun. It wasn’t even as though the Kingsguard he had with him could mount much challenge. “ _Ser”_ Boros the Belly and Preston Greenfield. Not exactly the finest swords of the realm. Why did he think it a good idea to endow them with the white cloak? _Cersei, no doubt she persuaded me while I was drunk._

He sighed, disappointed that these where his only options “Alright you two, let’s see what you’ve got for me today.” he said, indicating towards the tourney weapons, himself picking up a large, blunted Warhammer.

“Will you need your armour, your grace?” came a small voice from behind him, towards where the squires were sparring. He turned his head and found himself dropped five-and-ten years into the past, looking straight into the deep grey eyes and long frozen face that he had first seen on a cold spring day atop the Giant’s lance. Despite his youth Daeron Snow was already growing into the broad northern build he like to tease Ned about so much.

After a moment to regather his thoughts he looked at his opponents before shaking his head “Nah, these louts shan’t pose too much of a threat!” He laughed at the bemused expression that flit across the boy’s face, so alike what his frozen uncle had been in their youth. “As you with, your grace.”

The shadows had shrunk to near their smallest by the time he finished his exercise, though he had barely broken a sweat. The squires had long since gone about their duties, replaced by guardsmen and knights and men-at-arms.

Lunch was a trying two hours, sat next to his _charming_ bitch of a wife as she indulged their son’s every whim and whimsy. Joffery was well past the age that he should start learning combat, and Robert was sure that by the time he had seen six name-days even _he_ was able to read, not that he ever chose to, but the boy was singularly lacking in that regard. Robert would never understand what in the bloodiest hells of the Seven went through that cunt’s mind regarding their children. It took a full skin of wine from his golden-haired squire, Lannet, to survive the meal.

He was thankful that Daeron would be taking over duties for the council meeting as he had no desire to look at another Lannister for the rest of the day.

Light shone though the great stained-glass window of the small council chamber, illuminating the hall in a splendour of colours, the Halo of the Seven glistening off the snow white cloak of Ser Barristan as the rainbow of light surrounded the table set up in the centre of the room. He was the first to arrive, unsurprising as the meeting was not due to commence until the hour of the hawk.

Robert waited as the chamber gradually filled, Varys was next, gliding to his seat with a practiced elegance of an eagle searching for its meal. After him came Jon and Grandfather, talking in hushed tones, before Stannis almost flattened them as he swept into the chamber with a scowl, golden cloak flapping behind him. Vance came next, blustering about the room with his air of false confidence that not even a blind man would believe. It was only as the hour turned that the musty creek of Pycell finally hobbled in, muttering apologies for the delay. Robert sighed; this would be a long afternoon. He called for his cupbearer to fill the goblets, and Robert smiled when he saw Daeron’s long Stark face and calming grey eyes..

“Now we are all here” Jon Arryn said, as if he had been waiting for hours, “We may proceed on with the noble duty of ruling. Today, if it would please your grace, I wish for the Small Council to discuss the finances of the realm, and the depopulation of holdfasts caused by the war.” The hand smiled at his King. Robert opened his mouth to tell the room of the issues he wished the council to review but was cut off before he could begin. “Great, since you have no objections, Robert, I would ask Lord Estermont to inform the venerable members of the Council who have recently returned from the Iron Islands on how the war has affected the realms reserves of gold and silver?”

Grandfather looked down at his notes, a vast tome of red leather bound by gold, with insignia of Stag and Lion. It was a gift from Lord Tywin upon his ascension to the throne and marriage to his daughter, a bribe to have a Lannister named to that seat. A bribe that had not worked.

When Robert had left for war Eldon was already showing his age, but the months away had not helped him. The last grey had fled what little hair remained on his polished scalp, and around his eyes the skin sagged low. Despite the lines around grandfather’s mouth it was clear he had very little to laugh at in recent times.

“Your grace, if I may, to even maintain a fleet the size as was used in the invasion during a state of war is costly. And to take so many ships all the way around the Dorne and up the west, well, there is no nice way of putting this, the war cost the throne nine-hundred-and-sixty-five thousand dragons.” _Fuck._ Robert reached for his goblet to take a sip of wine only to find he had already finished it. He signalled for a refill, which he immediately emptied. It was quality stuff, the finest that the Vale had to offer, and could rival anything produced by the other kingdoms. “On top of that we have the regular spending, repairs to the Keep and the City hit a record two-hundred-and-eighty thousand thanks to the River Gate and Iron Gate rusting in the salty spray, requiring urgent replacement, and the head builder spotted cracks in the foundation to the Tower of the Hand, that need substantial work to repair. In addition, there are a number of smaller cost that also increased recently, such as an increase in crime that required the City Watch to be expanded, and finally, with so many people away for war, the first harvest of Spring was lower than expected, decreasing tax revenue significantly. By my calculations the crown had a shortfall of one-million-three-hundred-and-ten thousand dragons this year alone, leaving us with only Four-hundred-and-sixty thousand dragons remaining in the vaults, and next year the loans from Lord Tywin need to be paid in full.” _Bugger me bloody._ Grandfather looked up from the volume. “I had Maester Pyrgos and Lord Petyr Baelish confirm the numbers, and they both came up with very similar results.”

Robert sighed before turning to face his Hand, Lord Arryn, who was frowning at the table with such ferocity that he half expected the desk to flee the room. “How bad is it?” he asked, already knowing the answer. The realms coffers contained over eight million gold coins when he rebelled, and though his rebellion had depleted a significant amount of that total, he was still left with an impressive treasury not seven years prior.

The was a pungent pause in which he took another swig of wine, before Jon answered. “We must needs find alternative sources of gold. Do you have any ideas, Lord Estermont?” All eyes turned to the Master of Coin, begging that he find some solution to their woes. Grandfather shook his head sadly. “I have some rudimentary suggestions that could keep us solvent for… mayhaps a year, two if with luck, but… with your permission, your grace, it should be done under different stewardship. I am an old man, I tire o’re easy and my mind is not what it used to be. It has been too long since I last saw the beaches of Greenstone. I would thank you for the honour of the positions, King Robert, but I must humbly beg leave to resign.”

Robert picked up his goblet to raise a toast. He supressed a smile when he noticed that Ned’s nephew had refilled it without him needing to ask, _that is definitely something Eddard would do._ “I thank you, Eldon, on behalf of the realm and all who call it home.” Robert smiled as he heard his grandfather’s name echo around the chamber as the other councillors took up the toast.

It was Jon Arryn who spoke first after the cheers died down, asking who grandfather would recommend to succeed him. Grandfather suggested Maester Pyrgos, but Arryn favoured Lord Baelish. “We’ll Continue This Discussion Later.” Robert said, slightly louder than he had intended. He had had more to drink than he had planned to, and the world was beginning to lose focus. “What was the other thing that needed looking at? Castles?” _Gods, this wine is strong._

Jon nodded. “Yes, there are a number of castles and keeps with uncertain succession after the recent war, Dorne has one, the Reach three-and-ten, four from the Stormlands, six Riverlanders, two from the West, eight-and-ten from the Iron Isles, none from the Vale, four from the North, and one from the Crownlands. I have had Varys investigate the favoured heirs of each of the lieges, if you would?” he gestured to the spider.

“Yes, my lords” the eunuch began, his glistening head unnervingly still as he spoke. Robert looked down to find he had somehow emptied another gobbled of wine “I see no issues with the majority of those suggested, although Lord Piper’s preferred heir as the Knight of Murry’s Field does have chronic debt issues that may well prove problematic, I would recommend Ser Gregor Toonie for the position instead.” There was a brief pause before Lord Vance spluttered in from the corner. “Toonie? He was a staunch backer of the Dragon during the rebellion, you cannot seriously suggest rewarding him!”

Varys smiled a sly smirk “He has served loyally as Darry’s master at arms, and during the Greyjoy Rebellion he served as castellan for Murry’s Field with distinction. Besides, he had a better claim than Sutherland. This move would do much to mend the fractured Riverlands, the scars of the rebellion are still marked clear across the region.”

“No” he growled quietly. “Give the holdfast to Suth-” “Toonie” Jon Arryn cut in. “He is clearly the better choice, and the King knows this. We cannot afford to isolate the Lords who held to the Dragon any further, lest we be facing more rebellions in the future.” The Wadren of the East was glaring at him with a ferocity that could have brought down the Wall itself. Robert was too drunk to argue, and meekly nodded in assent. _Fuck, this is why a rarely attended these before the war. Jon won’t let me do a bloody thing._ Their power was too week, the old man claimed. To fractured. Too contested to truly make the changes he had wished for.

“If that is all, the council is dismissed. King Robert, if you would stay behind to discuss the replacement for Lord Eldon?”

“No” He said, struggling to his feet. “There is another-” He almost lost his balance, the world spun around him in a swirling whirl of motion. “-issue I wish to discuss.” He belched loudly. “The Kingsguard vows must change.”

The councillors around the table looked at him as if he had grown a second head.

“Ser Barristan, if I were to order you to walk into fleabottom and murder the first babe you see, would you obey?”

Silence.

Nobody moved. Robert could feel the seconds crawl by.

“Yes, your grace.”

It was scarce more than a growl that left his mouth, raw and animalistic. “The vows must change. I spoke with Eddard during the war. One of the things he told me was of the Kingsguard’s role in _her_ murder” He glanced around the room, trying to gage the thoughts of the others, but he could not see clearly enough to tell. “Your grace” came Varys. “Mayhaps you should dismiss the boy before we continue this discussion. He is too young to hear these things.” He nodded before sending young Daeron away. He didn’t deserve to know the full horrors of what had happened to his mother. He scarce wanted to think on it himself. It would likely be better if the boy never learnt the full extent of the tragedy.

Shortly after the fall of Pyke, as a storm battered the harbour preventing their departure, he had all but forced Ned to tell him how Lyanna had been taken. The truth had shaken him to the core. A poisoned wine skin laced with a draught that froze her muscles while keeping her awake and aware. It was _Ser_ Oswell who had administered it, dressed up as a traveling septon kindly offering to share his wine on a warm spring afternoon. _Cunts. Murderous bloody cunts, the lot of them._ They had taken turns in holding her down as the Lizard-rapist…

It was _Them_ that had kept her tied to the bed, forced to lay in her own waste as she came closer to term. It was _Them_ that had not even considered getting any kind of healer to oversee the birth. And it was _Them_ that had ignored the signs of festering that had eventually claimed her life, instead spending the time trying to decide what to do with the boy they had stolen. That was how Ned had found them, so caught up in argument over where to flee to they didn’t notice his party until after the cranogman had hit two of them with darts dipped in a slow acting paralytic poison. It was that that had allowed Eddard Stark the opportunity to land the killing blow on the Sword of the Morning, though only after most of his companions had been murdered.

He was so lost in thoughts about what Ned had told him that he barely registered Ser Baristan agreeing to bring it up with his ice-cloaked brethren, and have suggestions for the change drawn up for the next meeting in two days’ time.

The haze remained until Jon interrupted him. It took a moment before Robert realised that the other councillors had left. “-would be the better replacement for Lord Estermont.” He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his head. “I’m sorry Jon,” he sighed “I didn’t catch that.” The old man gave a smile laced with disappointment. It was a sight that Robert had grown far too used to since he first arrived in the Vale all those years ago. “I was merely recommending Lord Baelish for the position of Master of Coin.”

“Grandfather favoured Maester Pyrgos, didn’t he?” it was hard to remember with the amount of wine he had gone through. “Maester Pyrgos is the baseborn son of a minor Dornish landed Knight and a Tyroshi merchant’s daughter. Petyr Baelish is a noble Westerosi Lord, sworn to Lord Royce Coldwater, who is a vassel to the Bronze Yohn, who in turn owes fealty to your Hand. In addition, he grew up with the Tully girls, and shows the realm that your links with the North and the Riverlands are as strong as ever.”

“But grandfather thought that Pyrgos would suit the roll better.” He was whining now, he knew, in the way he only did when losing an argument to his foster-father.

“Baelish is a sign of strength. He shows your allies that you will reward their loyalty, and your enemies that you have powerful backers. The Maester would give two of your council ties to essos, and it would open the door for Dornish influence over the realm. And besides, Petyr did an admirable job overseeing Gulltown and had been assisting Eldon alongside the Maester for almost a year.”

Robert nodded his head in resigned agreement. “Inform Lord Baelish of his promotion on the morrow, we can celebrate his succession with a feast.” _It’s all that you trust me with organising anyway._

It was night by now, or near enough as made no matter. His Kingsguard’s cloak danced in the pale moonlight as the snowy shadow followed him through the red halls of the keep. An icy ghost haunting the bloody corridors, a constant reminder of Lyanna’s fate.

He ate much that evening and drank more, but in his heart, he knew that no amount of inebriation would ward off the dreams that would come to him again. His own chambers where cold and draughty. He had left the windows open when he left that morning, and nobody had thought to set the fire. He would get Cersei to speak to the steward tomorrow. Robert had drunk enough to stay warm, for tonight at least. He stumbled to bed, passing out near instantaneously, and surrendered to the cruel grasp of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was a hard one to write. This was originally only going to be a small section of a chapter covering serval years of time, but it grew and grew until I had to scrap most of it and completely rewrite the whole thing. Trying to write the running of a country from the perspective of a declining Robert in a convincing manner is difficult. Hopefully it isn't too bad??? Anyway, long story short, this will be much bigger than originally planned, and will probably end up closer than the 8 chapters I had storyboarded.
> 
> Just pretend I never promised weekly updates lol. I did get a one-shot set after the pre-release Arya chapter from tWoW written since this was last updated though.
> 
> Next time: honestly who know what will happen, this chapter completely mucked up my schedule. We'll see when we see I guess. 
> 
> : )


	5. Waxing Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daeron's life a few years on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously: Daeron went to King's Landing to act as page and cupbearer to King Robert. After being shunned by the noblemen's children he befriended some of Varys' little birds. Robert returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion and had a disastrous small council meeting that concluded with Littlefinger taking over as master of coin. In the background Varys is plotting.

**King’s Landing, 293ac**

The labyrinthine tunnels had become a second home to him, and the gestures of communication of its inhabitants was his second tongue. Through the twisting passageways he saw the grime hidden beneath the pristine walls and ornate tapestries of Robert’s Court. Maester Tommyn had pulled back the drapes on the messy web of plots and schemes and spies and intrigue that festered in the heart of the court.

He was joined by Bhatti and Nel, a slight girl of age with him. They were sat in a hidden alcove above the head stewards solar, watching as he was in fervent discussion with the master of horse about the quality of feed that was being supplied.

“You want to go to the kitchens?” Daeron signed. “They were baking lemon tartlets earlier; we could steal some.”

In truth he was hungry and he was bored. The head steward was frightfully dull when compared to the other officials. When they were spying on the Goldcloaks you could rely on seeing some kind of bribery, the Kingsgaurds where always sneaking out to visit the brothels, and the ever-changing rumours about what lord was fucking what servant always made the laundry room in interesting place to watch.

“We can’t.” replied Bhatti. “Varys will want to know what is happening here.”

“He will! Mossy is in behind the fake back of the cupboard in the corner.” Daeron countered, his hands moving erratically.

“You know this how…?” injected Nel.

“Just do.”

Daeron couldn’t let them know about his ability to skinchange. It was his secret, his pride and his shame. Just having Fleety, his mouse, nearby calmed him significantly, but if others knew of it they would think hin a monster.

“Of course.” Nel retorted with a sceptical gleam in her eyes, but she followed them none the less as he led their way to the kitchens.

They were sat in the Godswood, the large oak sheltering them from the searing heat of the midday sun as they ate their stolen tarts. In the branches a song thrush warbled its merry whistle. A robin hopped around the base of the trees, occasionally getting close enough to them to steal a flake of pastry they had dropped. The unmistakable hammer of a woodpecker marched through the trees, as blue tits raced between the trunks. The flowers of summer where in full bloom. A cacophony of colour, of yellows and reds and blues and violets, sat nestled amongst the perfect green of maturing life.

“The queen was having another rant about you.”

“Uh huh?” It was a common occurrence, and Daeron had quickly learnt to avoid Queen Cersei and her scorn. Rarely a week went by without her demanding he be sent back north. Part of him wished that the king would fold to his wife’s will. He missed Robb and Sansa, Uncle Ned and Aunt Catelyn, he missed the crimson leaves of the great heart tree and the statue of his mother deep below. But then he would remember how he had been abandoned to the capital, alone save for Jory. But even Jory had returned to Winterfell with the end of the war, and Uncle Ned was yet to visit him.

“You will find a family here.” Maester Tommyn had told him not long after he arrived, and he had. Bhatti was his brother now, and Nel his sister. Tommyn himself was almost a grandfather to him. He was close to the King too, though as time went on, he spent less time with him as Lancel took the place of primary cupbearer. It irked him a little that he was passed over. He knew far more about governance than Lancel Lannister, and he took his lessons far more seriously too. _If only King Robert asked for my advice._

“Says you were trying to seduce Myrcella.”

He let out a snort of disbelief. “She’s three and asked me to wear a flower she picked.”

“The King laughed at her as well, apparently.”

“Who did you hear this from?” asked Nel.

“Marler, I think. Or Koch.” Bhatti shrugged. “I always get those two confused.”

“They look nothing alike! One is Blond, the other is ginger.”

“They give off the same general impression.”

“Honestly, you’re hopeless Bhatti. Why does Varys keep you?”

Daeron found himself mentally reaching out for one of the circling tits as his mind began to wander away from his bickering friends. It took a while for him to focus on a specific bird amongst the many that resided in the small wood, but once he did it was easy to slip into its skin.

The world seemed narrower as a bird, distances far smaller. Reds were more vibrant, and blues seemed muted. Every sigh of the wind and shake of the branch was noticeable. Sounds were sharper too, bees buzzed in a neighbouring tree, a squirrel scampered along the high leaves so far above. For a brief and wonderful moment, he felt at peace.

The bells of the Sept of Baelor rang out across the city, jolting him out of the bird. Daeron said goodbye to his friends before sprinting off to his lessons. Maester Tommyn was waiting for him with his usual fond smile and pocket of candied orange peel. “Young master Snow, you are late.” He said, though there was no hint of rebuke in his voice. “No matter, todays lesson has waited one hundred years, what is a few extra minutes?” he chuckled.

Daeron perked up at that. History had always been his favourite subject. Tales of his namesake’s invasion of Dorne had long enticed him. “Are you going to tell me about Daeron the First again?”

Tommyn smiled but shook his head. “Close. The second Daeron and the Blackfyre rebellions.”

He spent the afternoon learning about how a combination of fear of the Dornish influence at court, Aegon IV’s unwillingness to quell rumours questioning Daeron’s illegitimacy, the paranoia of Bloodraven and Bittersteel, and the obvious favouring of Daemon Blackfyre lead to the bloodiest war since the death of the dragons.

“He earnt his moniker of ‘The Good’, but not until his later life. That is who you are named after, not the Young Dragon. No, he brought nought to Westeros save for a war he could not win. It was the second Daeron that brought Dorne into the realm, and the second Daeron that gave the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros an age of wisdom not seen since the Old King himself. That is what your mother named you to do. You were to stand beside your brother as you forged the land anew, created something greater than what came before.” Tommyn reached out to hold his chin. “Sweet child, this was not to be your fate. You were to be legitimised, made a prince. Not some glorified servant to the man who murdered and slandered your noble father.”

“I wish I could have grown up with Aegon. He didn’t deserve to die. It’s not fair.” He was close to tears, but he did not want to show weakness before Tommyn. He was thankful for the old man, he was the only one who would tell him the truth about his father, when all others saw his father as a villain.

“I wish that too, sweet child.”

***

Three days later, he found himself overseeing a small council meeting, one of the few that King Robert attended lately. Not that Daeron could blame him given how Lord Jon Arryn treated him when he did try to rule.

It was hot in the chamber, the humid air dripping off the walls. There would be a storm later, but for now it was calm. Peaceful. Not even a gentle breeze wafted through the palace. As usual Pycell was the last to arrive, his almost comically slow gait a poor front to hide his treacherous nature.

“Now we are all here” Lord Arryn drawled his usual opening, “We may proceed on with the noble duty of ruling. Varys, what news do you have for us?”

The eunuch bowed his head slightly towards the king. “The food shortages in Flee Bottom have taken a turn for the worse. Should you not end your feud with Lord Tyrell soon we may have a riot on our hands.”

“Sod the fat flower! He can burn his crops far all I care.”

“How effective have the trade restrictions been?” asked Littlefinger. Daeron could hear the smirk on his face.

“Regrettably ineffective. With the rising tensions in the Stepstones, and the increasing Tyroshi presence in the disputed lands following the recent ascension of the new Archon, war in the narrow sea looks likely. And few captains wish to run that gauntlet. Dorne is forced to look elsewhere for food.”

“Your Grace,” interjected Lord Arryn, “It may be time to rescind the crown’s backing of Lord Florent’s claim over the shield islands.”

“I will not be made to look weak by a flower. A Gods Damned Flower, Jon!”

“They are making you look weak by ignoring the restrictions. Baelish, I want you to ride to Highgarden and oversee a cease in hostilities between them and Brightwater Keep. When can you leave?”

“Tomorrow, my Lord Hand. I have business to attend to in Cider Hall, it shall be good to attend to that, too.”

Daeron knew exactly what kind of business Littlefinger had with the Fossoways, _Red apple, I think._ Not content with bankrupting the Vale, he had recently begun to stretch his tendrils into the Reach. Since Maester Pyrgos’ disappearance last year there was nobody to hold him to account over the realm’s finances.

“Anything else for us, Lord Varys?” asked a very bored looking Renly.

“The Night’s Watch are after more men.”

“As usual.” Muttered Stannis. “Renly, have the dungeons emptied for them. You can manage that at least.”

The King’s younger brothers had come to blows recently in private over Renly’s shirking of duties. Stannis had been so angry that Daeron, hiding in the walls, had half feared that he might murder his own brother. Stannis was worried about Renly increasingly relinquishing control of the Gold Cloaks to Baelish. Though he wouldn’t tell anyone, Daeron was worried about that too.

“The Drowned Men have been rising to prominence since the Greyjoy Rebellion. Certain factions of the order are pushing for another rebellion.”

“Do I need to ready the Iron Fleet for war again?” asked Stannis.

“Not yet, my lord, they yet lack the strength to pose a threat, though remain alert for the possibility.” Varys replied. “Finally, I have an uncorroborated report that the Mad King’s children have died after the Tyroshi magister they were staying with was assassinated. I will however need more-”

“-At toast, for the good people Tyrosh!” Robert roared. “Come Snow, fill the goblets!”

It took a moment for Daeron to react to the words. He was in shock, angry. The King was asking him to celebrate the murder of his own kin. He was shaking as he emptied the wineskin into Roberts cup. For years he had harboured the dream of meeting the last of the trueborn Targaryens, a wish fuelled by the many tales of Maester Tommyn. Yet in that moment his hopes were torn asunder, a fragile eggshell smashed into the face of the moon itself.

He felt more alone than he ever had before.

Somehow, he found himself dragged by the King to the training yard, forcing Robert into his too-small armour and watching him hit smaller men with his hammer in celebration. He picked up a blunted sword and began to hack away at dummy in a shaded corner of the yard. He lacked style, he lacked grace, he lacked technique. The world closed in and only the straw man before him existed. Grassy fibres flew off the dummy as he swung with ever increasing force. He was alone in a world of his own thoughts.

_I am alone always._

Uncle Ned had left him here, and Robb had let him go. Robb had Theon now. The rare letter Robb wrote him spoke more of Theon than of home.

_It was never my home, just the place I spent my first few years._

And now, now the Targareyns had left him too.

His face was wet, and he could not tell if it was tears or if it was rain. The storm had broken, thunder hollered and screamed around him as rain fell, thick and heavy and warm as fresh blood. The drops pounded him through his tunic. He cursed the world with every insult he knew and then, as lightning danced around him, he collapsed into a ball of pity and self-loathing.

_He saw the boy with the bright blue hair. He was crying too, alone on his boat. The spiders had left the deck now, only empty webs remained. You aren’t alone, he wanted to say. The words would not form. How could he promise that when he himself was alone? They sat together, crying alone. Even the stars stopped shining far, far above. It was dark, and cold, and dark._

Night had fallen by the time he roused himself from his ball. The storm had worn itself out hours before and a lone owl circled the starless sky so far above. It gave the empty night a mournful hoot but received no call in response.

The kitchens were deserted, the pot boys and scullery maids had finished hours ago but the bakers were yet to begin the early morning shift. He found a loaf of stale bread and a hard lump of cheese and called it a feast. It did not fill the hole so deep within him.

Moonlight illuminated the long and empty corridors of the Red Keep. Silence consumed him. The vast halls swallowed up the gentle tapping of his footsteps, and for all the world he was invisible. A silent mouse drowning in an immense sea of indifference and loathing.

He almost didn’t see the sobbing body curled up in the cranny of the empty hallway. Though the moon beamed bright through the windows, the man was cloaked in darkness. As Daeron drew near he could smell the stench of wine and vomit wafting off the trembling figure.

He moved cautiously as not to startle the drunkard as he passed, but as he approached the person shifted and he recognised the King. Robert looked at him with glassy eyes until a fain flicker of recognition dawned in them.

“I-I-I’m shorry Ned.” he slurred, failing to push himself off the cold stone floor. “I f-f-failed her.” He was trying to drag himself towards Daeron now. “I th-thought that – hoped that now… but it doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t fix any of it.”

Daeron turned to leave. He could not bear to be in the presence of the man who had slaughtered his entire family for a moment longer.

“Even y-you turn from me now. T-tell me Ned, tell me where I went so wrong.”

Daeron gave him no reply.

His chambers where cool when morning dawned, hailed in with the gentle caress of the morning songbirds. The taste of bile was heavy on his tongue. Not even fresh mint leaves could cleanse it from him.

He had lessons with Tommyn today, though his mind was not for learning. How could it be? He had lost his last family. _My last family who has not abandoned me._

Not even the poppy seed and lemon cake that the Maester procured from a pocket could make him smile.

“I grieve for them too, sweet child. They did not deserve that fate. Running from city to city, staying long enough to earn the ire of their hosts before being forced to move on. I saw little of Visaerys, before the rebellion. But he was a sweet boy, kind and thoughtful. He would have done his father proud, I think. He was only a handful of years your senior. Mayhaps you would have been friends.” Tommyn smiled then, a sad and wistful smile. One born of years of regret and morning. “Alas, t’was not to be. I am little more than an old man yearning for his youth. Tell me your thoughts, sweet child. Tell them true.”

He did not know how to begin. The great big, knotted ball that was his thoughts was too entangled to even begin to deconstruct. His dreams, his hopes. His aspirations. How could even start to unwind them to another person.

“I-” he opened, “I feel… hollow. I did not know them, and yet they were kin. Family. My last family. And now they are… gone.”

He felt comforted by the nod that Tommyn gave. Like the Maester had been through the same struggles, faced the same pains. “Are the Starks not your family too?” he asked after a pause.

Daeron felt his cheeks redden. It wasn’t an accusation, but it felt like one. “They left me here. Abandoned me.”

He was on the verge of tears now. He shouldn’t be. He was a big boy now, and crying was what babies did. Daeron was not a baby. He wasn’t. Yet the tears came anyway. He was wrapped up in Tommyn’s thick woolen cloak. It was comforting in a way he had not felt in years. _Mayhaps I have never felt this comfort._

Tommyn held him in silence as he drained himself of the last remaining tears that he did not shed last night. He had scarcely felt so small, so young. So vulnerable.

Daeron felt spent. His every ounce of energy used up howling at the void. It was comforting to hear the Maester speak. “Ten years ago, when this city was sacked in the waning days of King Aerys’ rule, prince Aegon was but a babe.” Tommyn said. “Eight score years ago, in these very halls there was another prince, one that was murdered in the heart of the Red Keep itself. Jaeherys his name was. Just six name-days old, a sweet and lively child by all accounts. His killer’s names have been lost the ever-shifting sands of time, of course. But one was a mouser, that’s why there are so many cats these days. His knowledge of the tunnels granted them access to the Tower of the Hand. To the royal family themselves.”

Tommyn reached out to his cheek and he flinched away on instinct. “Sweet child, what I am about to tell you must never be repeated. Not to the King, not your Uncle, not even Bhatti or Nel. Do you understand me?”

There was a bite to his words that Daeron was not used to. He could not help but nod.

“A decade ago, as the city fell to Tywin’s cruel tyranny, those same tunnels that led to the death of prince Jaehaerys were the salvation of your brother Aegon. As the city burnt and the red cloaks raped, I carried the boy through the tunnels beneath the city smuggled him out of the keep.”

_No._

He’s in shock. It doesn’t register for him. Not immediately. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head dumbly and Maester Tommyn gives him a small smile. “Remember, you cannot tell a soul.”

Daeron Snow is not alone. _He_ is not alone.

_I am not alone._

He finds himself grinning.

Daeron woke the next morning as the first light of the new dawn stole into his chambers. The sun battling the moon for supremacy of the sky, the sliver ball losing out. He had a certainty in his mind of what to do now. The dreams that had so long haunted his nights, stalked his shattered sleep. They were leading him to do this.

Lord Cregan’s egg had hidden in his chest for years. The iridescent gold was glowing in the low-lying sun of the early morning. Swirls of orange danced in the sheen. It was a sun that he held in his own two hands. It was captivating. Awe inspiring.

 _“Give”_ the dreams had told him. The crow insistent it was not his to keep. For years he had silently wondered, hoped for the dreams to tell him who’s it was. And now he knew.

 _I have a brother._ It still did not feel real. Ever since Uncle Ned had told him of his sibling’s fate on the day that Arya was born he had longed for a family that was truly his own. Well, now he had one.

And he swore that he would do whatever he could to keep Aegon alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it has been a while for this story. I apologise. I veered far enough from my original plan that I lost my rhythm for this fic, but hopefully I have it back now. Maybe once this fic is done I will post the original outline so that you can laugh at what I had planned. 
> 
> We now have the reason I gave Jon a Targaryen name: so he can be manipulated. Well, that and I did not want too many Jons in this fic. Seriously GRRM, half your characters are called Jon. 
> 
> Next time: I think it is Daeron again, picking up around the time that Canon begins.
> 
> Posted 11/02/2021


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